The Ripper Affair

Mikal tilted his dark head. His hair was slightly disarranged, and his hand rested upon a hilt–one of the knives at his hips, wicked blades Clare had a healthy respect for his facility in handling.

Clare drew his gloves on, slowly. Settled his hat.

“Mentath.” The Shield’s words were a bare murmur, but Clare’s quick ears caught them. “You have caused her grief.”

It was his turn to nod. There was no denial, no excuse he could offer.

There was, however, an answer to the charge. “So have you, sir.”

Mikal’s hand fell away from the hilt. Clare expected more, but the Shield was simply silent as the mentath brushed past. Just before the front door, he paused.

Once I leave, will I ever return?

There was no answer. He took a deep breath, adjusted his hat, and stepped out into a foggy Londinium midmorning. A spatter of rain touched the small, exquisite garden, and Miss Bannon’s gates were merely ajar instead of fully open.

He sallied down the stone path, and when he exited the gate it closed behind him, with a small, definite click. There was a hansom waiting, the driver’s face half-hidden by a striped muffler, and a chill touched Clare’s back.

It was irrational, so he discarded it, and clambered into the hansom.

Pico, cleaning his fingernails with a thin, flexible knife, greeted him with a nod. “All’s well?”

No. “Yes. Quite.” He settled himself, and tapped the roof. “Baker Street, please, number 200.”

“Sir!” The whip cracked. Clare suppressed a shiver.

What came next? If he thought only of what must be done next, he could, he thought, perhaps navigate this situation properly. “Mr Pico. Miss Bannon has released you into my service. I trust you have no objection?”

“Course not, guv.” The lad grinned. “Interesting indeed. Still want to learn from her grim one, though.”

I am certain you do, he is most dangerous. “When your duties permit. You are a bright lad, and shall be of great help. Tell me, are you fond of travel?”

“Can’t say as I’ve ever tried it, guv.”

“Well.” Clare settled himself, steepled his fingers, and gazed past them at the faded fabric curtains swaying as the hansom rocked over cobbles. “You shall, and very soon.” Very soon indeed. “There are experiments to be done.”

He lapsed into a profound silence, which did not discommode Pico in the least. As the conveyance bore them away from Brooke Street, the lad even began to whistle.

Note

A string of brutal killings in London in 1888 are still a subject of unholy fascination to this day. I make no apology for the allusions to said murders within this work of fiction, for indeed it is difficult to write of Victorian London without tripping over a mention or two of the fear that gripped the city in that awful autumn. I do, however, wish to state that there are a number of excellent books and interesting theories about the murders, and that I availed myself of several.

I wish to further state that though I may allude, I deliberately do not address the killer by the name he might have given himself, or the name the nascent “popular media” christened him with and that he is known by today. Instead, I shall list other names:

Emma Elizabeth Smith

Martha Tabram

Mary Ann Nichols

Annie Chapman

Elizabeth Stride

Catherine Eddowes

Mary Jane Kelly

There are a multitude of others who also met untimely ends, by violence or poverty.

If they cannot be avenged, may they all, at least, be at peace.

BOOKS BY LILITH SAINTCROW

Bannon and Clare

The Iron Wyrm Affair

The Red Plague Affar

The Ripper Affair

The Damnation Affair (e-only)

Dante Valentine Novels

Working for the Devil

Dead Man Rising

Devil’s Right Hand

Saint City Sinners

To Hell and Back

Dante Valentine (omnibus)

Jill Kismet Novels

Night Shift

Hunter’s Prayer