The Ripper Affair

“There are plenty that bear the same marks; the avocation of drink and prostitution is a hazardous one. But the site of the Tebrem murder… there were troubling… would you believe me, sir, if I said I possessed what a colonist might call ‘an intuition’? A… feeling, one sharpened by my… experiences.”

“I would believe you.” Clare sought for the right tone. “You are saying that there may have been others, but the Tebrem murder was successful enough to propel the murderer forward? It stoked the fire of his obsession past the critical point, and we are now—”

“—facing what may become an explosion. Especially since the Eastron End bears a distressing resemblance to a powder-keg recently. The influx of Yudics, the Eirean troubles, the Red, sheer laziness and ill character finding its level, so to speak, and the dreadfuls and broadsheets irresponsibly striking sparks against a very short fuse.” He turned on his heel, striding for the shelf, and reached for a redrope folder.

Holding it, he looked even more solicitor-like, and Clare had to quash a moment of amusement. The situation most certainly did not call for a smile, and his expression might be misinterpreted.

Had he not spent so long watching Miss Bannon smooth over misinterpretations, he might have unwittingly made the situation precarious.

Aberline took no notice of his expression either way. “And the Crown has now seen fit to muddy the waters by bringing pressure to bear on the Yard. I confess I am rather disheartened by the fact, since said pressure will inevitably make it more difficult to pursue a single murderer through the worst sinks of Londinium. Disturbed silt does not permit clarity in a pond, so to speak.”

“Ah.” Clare cogitated upon this set of statements for a few moments. “I say, Detective Inspector, you very much seem to view these deaths as a personal affront.”

The man had the grace to cough slightly, and redden a bit. “Some cases, Mr Clare, become so.”

“Indeed they do.” Clare settled himself more firmly in the chair. “I believe the file you hold contains the information you deem particularly worthwhile, and also particularly damaging to public order. I further believe you have every reason to be as cautious as you are. This has all the marks of an affair that could end very badly. And Mr Pico, do come and have a seat. I believe you may be of some use to us.”

“Glad to become so, squire,” was the cheeky reply, and Clare found, much to his surprise, that he was almost agreeably irritated with the lad.

Perhaps Miss Bannon had not been so wrong to engage him.

No doubt there was a sorcerous component to this case, but vanquishing it with pure logic–and the resources of the Yard, no matter how muddied the waters had become–might indeed be possible.

The question of why such a prospect could warm him so agreeably was one he decided to set aside for the nonce.

“These are murders Lestraid and I believe fit the pattern.” The redrope was distressingly thick, and the small table dragged to suit Clare’s perusal of it was rather overwhelmed by its bulk. “Tea, while you read?”

“Quite welcome, thank you.” Clare’s brow furrowed as he opened the file, and his faculties woke even further.

He settled himself for a long afternoon’s work.

Chapter Twenty-Four Thin Meg

Kendall, two streets over, turned out to be somewhat misleading. Perhaps the man hadn’t meant to be deceptive, but the fog was thickening and Emma’s thoughts were of a similarly impenetrable nature. She rather wished Clare was about, for he had the most wonderful way of clarifying matters. At least, he did when those matters did not involve his own tender sensibilities.

In any case, it was the rank narrow reeking of Blightallen, the Scab thick and resilient underfoot–sunlight didn’t reach past the sloping overhead tenements, leaning together to confer on business best kept low-voiced–that held their quarry. Or, more precisely, his stinking domicile, which was one low-ceilinged room, with a door that had been shivered to pieces.

There had been more than one murder in Whitchapel last night. The closet was thick with an ætheric tangle of violence. A small, blood-soaked bed, a strongbox that had been rifled–by murderer or by neighbours was an open question–and torn, faded wallpaper; one sad, frameless painting of a woman with dark eyes and a decided downturn to her mouth, dressed in the fashion of the Mad Georgeth’s early reign, powdered curls and a plaid beauty-mark high on her left cheek. The painting was varnished to the wall at least twice, which solved one mystery, while a round of questioning the foul-haired, slattern of a landlady solved another.

“I runs a respectable house, I does,” she repeated, tightening her dirty shawl about her consumptive-thin shoulders. Her skirts were patched, and two of her corset stays were missing; it could have produced unsightly bulges had she not been so wraithlike. “Owner’s a Westron End gent, high and mighty as yourself, Missy.”