The Ripper Affair

“Indeed.” The inspector’s hand trembled slightly, and there were still dark circles under his eyes. “Many of the public agree. In fact, we are inundated with well-meaning letters, telegrams, notes, scribbles, and opinions. They are certain someone they know has acted suspiciously, or they tell us how we may go about doing our duty and catching the damned man. He seems to have rather caught the public interest.”

“Gruesomely so. The broadsheets are full of Leather Apron this and Murder that.” The less responsible are blaming the Yudics in all but name. Clare cast about for a place to perch, but there was none. The chair he had settled in last time overflowed with paper–no doubt there was a rich trove of deduction to unearth there. “Do tell me how I may help, sir.”

“I would set you to weeding through these, but I rather think it a waste of time and of your magnificent talents. If you can believe it, these are the missives that have been judged to have some merit in other quarters, and are thus passed to me.”

But there must be hundreds! “Good heavens. Surely there is a better use of your own resources than this.”

“I rather think so.” Aberline tugged on his gloves, of a little higher quality than a mere inspector’s, but by no means reprehensibly Æsthete.

Clare noted his walking-stick–Malacca, with a curious brass head that looked rather too heavy–and the overcoat hanging behind the inspector’s desk, on a wrought-iron contraption. “I deduce we are going walking.”

“Rather healthful, at our age.” Aberline shrugged into the overcoat with quick movements.

A flash of amusement passed through Clare, a swift pang, over quickly. He did his best to ignore it. “I further deduce our destination is an unsavoury part of Londinium.”

“Will he take cold, our young lad?” The inspector scooped up his walking-stick and thrust his chin at Philip Pico, who held a mutinous peace.

The youth merely let his lip curl slightly, and Clare thought the russet touches to his hair were perhaps natural. Even his eyebrows held a tinge of burning.

“I doubt it. He has overcome his reluctance to accompany me on such salubrious excursions.” There are some advantages to logic, indeed.

“Very well. He may even be useful.” The detective inspector cast a final glance over the room, and an extraordinary flash of Feeling surfaced on his features.

Observe, analyse. Clare’s faculties seized on the unguarded expression. Longing, disgust, a heavy recognition of futility.

Detective Inspector Aberline was a man who loathed his employment, and yet he would continue in it for as long as possible, devoting his energies faithfully and completely, with little regard for his health or happiness.

Perhaps his dislike of Miss Bannon sprang from the fact that they were, on that level, very much the same. There was no antipathy like that of the familiar. “Mr Pico is singularly useful, sir. I deduce we are bound for Whitchapel?”

Aberline’s broad, sudden smile was a marvel of cheerfulness, showing another flash of the youth he must have been. “Incorrect, sir!” He drew himself up, settled his bowler, tested the heft of his walking-stick, and strode lively for the door. “We are bound for Limhoss, and for an explanation.”

Chapter Twenty-Eight Tonight, Strike To Kill

“Oh, blast it all.” Emma’s temper frayed still further, and Finch’s head drew back between his thin, hunching shoulders, rather in the manner of a tortoise.

A telegram from Aberline, and Clare was out of the door like a shot. At least Philip had gone with him, and she could safely consign the mentath’s welfare to the list of problems not to be solved at the moment.

She took a deep breath. “Never mind. They shall distract my quarry admirably for the time being. Thank you, Finch.”

“Mum.” He paused, ready if she wished to add anything more.

Fortunately, she did. “I am closing the house. Pray let the other servants know, and take care none of the deliveries are allowed to step inside. I do not have time for the bother that would ensue.” Not to mention it might drive the prices of some goods up, and while she had a good head for business–a Collegia education rather instilled such a thing–there was no reason to be flagrant with what she had accumulated. A second thought occurred to her. “I do rather hope Clare does not bring his new acquaintance to my door. The result would be singularly unappealing.”

Finch’s posture did not change one whit. “Mr Clare said he did not quite trust the inspector’s motives regarding yourself, mum.”

“Did he now.” A thin thread of amusement bloomed, very much against her will. “Well, Mr Clare is wise to do so.” She halted, one foot on the first stair. “Finch… Geoffrey.”