The Ripper Affair

“Telegram?” Clare straightened his sleeves and viewed one of the large wooden tables with satisfaction. A tidy workroom meant a tidy mind, indeed.

“Yes, sir.” Finch’s tone betrayed nothing but neutrality. However, there was a fine sheen of sweat on the butler’s forehead, and there was a slight tremor in the hand that proffered the slip of paper.

It was from Aberline, and the satisfaction of deduction burned through Clare’s skull.

Ah. So it is Finch the inspector would like to pry from Miss Bannon’s grip. It made sense, now–the butler, as one of Miss Bannon’s oddities, had a chequered past. He affected a laborious upper-crust wheeze and a slow, stately walk, but his movements often betrayed a knife-fighters’s awareness of space and familiarity with tight corners. Several interlocking deductions filled Clare’s faculties for a moment–a sweet burn, rather like coja.

The telegram itself was almost an afterthought.

SEARCHING FOR CLEWS STOP REQUEST YOUR PRESENCE STOP

“How very interesting,” Clare murmured. “Is the boy waiting?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Give him tuppence, please. And send for a hansom, there’s a good man.”

“Yes, sir.” Finch retreated, Philip watched with bright interest. His hand twitched, and Finch’s fingers tightened slightly, but the young man merely offered a wide grin.

“Finch?”

“Yes, sir?”

For a moment, he wished to utter an absurdity–Worry not, good man, I shan’t bring the inspector home. Then the likely consequences of such a statement became apparent, bringing him up short. Not to mention the thought of calling Miss Bannon’s house home. He had a flat of his own, did he not?

Then why am I still here? “Do make certain Miss Bannon knows my whereabouts. I do not quite trust the good inspector’s intentions.”

Finch hesitated. He glided for the door, and Clare detected a smidgen of relief on his gaunt face. “Yes, sir,” he said, finally, with a peculiar emphasis on the first word.

So. It was Finch, and I have reassured him. It would not do to remark upon it, but Clare permitted himself a small smile and a tiny warm glow of satisfaction.

He turned in a slow circle, taking in the view of the workroom, and was struck by the shocking idea that he had been wasting time. Waiting for Miss Bannon to descend from her tower, so to speak, and pass commerce with his mere mortal self again.

Though how mere a mortal I am remains to be seen.

“Well now,” he murmured, staring at the racks of beakers and alembics, each one shining-clean. “I say, Lud–ah, Philip, I have been imposing on Miss Bannon’s hospitality rather much lately.”

The lad made a short sound, whether of approbation or complaint Clare could not tell.

Clare forged onward. “You are rather an odd sort, but you are quick and know when to stay silent. I think you may do very well as an assistant.”

Philip’s nose wrinkled slightly. “A fine compliment, sir.”

“And heartily meant. Fetch what you need, we may not return.”

“She won’t like that, sir.”

“Nonsense. She has every faith in your capability, or she would not have engaged you to follow me about.” He felt, he realised, extremely lucid, and the prospect of another tangle to test his faculties against was comforting in the extreme.

He also felt quite calm. Having a course of action to pursue helped to no end.

Philip had no witticism to answer with, so Clare set forth at a little faster than a walk but still short of a run, to fetch his hat and pack a few necessaries.

Perhaps Miss Bannon did worry for his well-being; perhaps this was an affair sorcery alone could untangle. Perhaps she was correct, and perhaps it was dangerous for Clare to accompany the detective inspector into the murderous knots that sprang up thick and rank as weeds wherever illogical sorcery was found.

Yes, Clare admitted to himself as he hopped up the stairs and turned for his rooms. She had quite a legitimate concern, had the lady in question.

Nevertheless, my dear Emma, I cannot wait to prove you wrong.

“I say, I wasn’t sure you’d come,” Aberline said grimly, rising to shake Clare’s hand. His desk was littered with piles of paper, his inkstand had seen heavy use of late, and the shelves in his office were disarranged somewhat. The place was full of dust occasioning from that rearranging, and there was a betraying tickle in Clare’s nose.

He suppressed the incipient sneeze and cleared his throat instead. “Whyever not? I am quite happy to be of service. This shall keep my faculties tolerably exercised, I should think. Besides, we cannot have murderers running loose. It is an affront to good order.”