The Ripper Affair

“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.”

Chapter Twenty-Three From The Hind End

Whitehell 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.”