The Ripper Affair

For a Prime, that could not be borne.

“No,” she said, and took a deep breath, wishing her stays did not cut so and that her skirts were not draggled with blood and Scab-muck. “I shall not retreat. I require a hansom.”

“Where are we bound?”

“The Yard, Mikal. They will not venture into Whitchapel until the riot burns itself out, and there may be certain profit in reminding one or two of Aberline’s superiors of certain facts.”

Chief among them that I am acting for the Crown–but I am not particularly choosey about how I finish this bloody business.

Chapter Thirty-One A Somewhat Durable Cast

A thickset man in bobby’s blue, his whistle dangling from a silver chain, put up both hands to halt the detective inspector’s headlong rush. “Whitchapel’s ablaze, sir. We’re not to go in. Orders.”

“Oh, for the love of…” Aberline looked almost ready to tear out handfuls of his own hair. “Clare?”

Clare blinked, cocked his head and sought to untangle the various cries and crashes rending the night air. “Who would order—”

“Commissioner Waring, no doubt.” Aberline all but bounced up on his toes to peer between two other broad, beefy bootleather knights, who were viewing the traceries of Scab on the cobbles with studied disinterest. “Candleson! Over here!”

The bobby who glanced up and sauntered to join them was a mutton-chopped and gin-nosed bulk with an oddly mincing gait. His knees no doubt gave him trouble, judging by how gingerly he stepped, but Clare caught a steely twinkle in the man’s deep-set eyes and the calluses on his beefy paws. Candleson carried a knotty stick, much in the manner of an Eirean shillelagh, dark with use and oil. A leather loop on his broad, creaking belt was its home on the few occasions, Clare thought, that it was not in his hands.

No doubt it had cracked many a criminal’s skull in its time, too.

“Evenin’, sir. There’s a bit of the restless tonight.” His accent was a surprise–reasonably educated, though with a lilt to the consonants that bespoke a childhood on a farm, most probably in Somerset.

“Your understatement, dear Candleson, is superb as always. Let me guess, Waring says to wait for morning?”

“Bit dark in there,” was the laconic reply. But Candleson’s mouth turned down briefly, and the crease under his chin flushed.

“Another murder.” Aberline’s eyebrows rose.

“Still bleeding when she was found. Dunfeld’s, Berner Street. There’s another of those clubs there. Workingmen, foreigners.” He looked even more sour at the notion.

“Good God.” Aberline did not pale, but it might have been close. “They will kill each other in droves over this.”

The noise intensified. Whitchapel buzzed as a poked wasps’ nest might. The entire Eastron End might well catch fire, figuratively or literally. Clare twitched at his cuffs, bringing them down, and took stock of his person. He did not even have his pepperbox pistol or its replacement, and no doubt the quality of his cloth would attract unwanted attention. He glanced at Philip Pico, who stood with his arms folded and feet braced, watching him with a peculiar expression.

“Well.” Clare drew himself up. “There is nothing for it, then.”

Aberline rounded on him. “Sir, I—”

Clare set off for the line of venom-green Scab. The onlookers did not expect trouble from his quarter, so he was through the line and marching onwards when Aberline caught at his arm. “What in God’s name—”

“I must examine the site of this new event before it is trampled by a mob, and daylight will only bring more of them. Stay here, if you—”

“You shall not go alone. I should warn you, there is tremendous risk to your person.”

“I rather think there is.” The noise had intensified, and he had to raise his voice to be heard. “I am sure you will find it reassuring that I am of a somewhat durable cast, though. Philip?”

“Oh, she’s not going to like this,” the lad said, but he seemed willing enough. High spots of colour burned in his beardless cheeks, and there was a definite hard merriment to his tone. Rather as Valentinelli had sported a fey grin, when they were about to plunge into danger.

“She has other matters to attend to,” Clare said shortly, and set out afresh. Aberline followed, with a muttered word that might have been a curse.

Behind them, the line of bobbies and a growing mass of curiosity-seekers murmured and rustled. Ahead, there was a cacophony, the fog billowing in veils as if it, too, sought to misbehave tonight.

Clare did not consult his pocket-watch, but he thought it very likely they had been in a Limhoss daze for quite some hours.

The question of just what Inspector Aberline had been saying in the midst of that daze would have to wait. For they rounded a slight bend in the cobbled road, and the fog became garishly underlit with flame. Cries and running feet, piercing screams, and a high sweet tinkle of breaking glass.