The Ripper Affair

“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.