The Ripper Affair

A mannerly knock, and the door was flung open with quite unnecessary force. In stalked an incredibly dishevelled Miss Bannon. Her colour was dreadful, her skirts were tattered and crusted with blood, ombre petticoats underneath likewise rudely treated, and her veil torn. Her hair was a tumble-mess of dark curls, and despite Tideturn’s recent occurrence, her jewellery did not spark as it usually did when she cared to appear in high dudgeon. She was also coated with a peculiar pink dust Clare’s faculties identified as from broken roof tiles.

Mikal, at her shoulder, was hardly in better form. His velvet coat was sadly misused, and the sight of flushed, newly healed knife-marks on his belly might have fascinated Clare had he not seen the knife and extra-jointed appendages responsible for such damage very recently. The Shield was coated in roof-tile dust as well, but underneath it was a layer of straw, dirt, and foul-smelling remainders of the organic sludge coating Whitchapel’s floor.

Another shudder worked through Clare. His gaze held Miss Bannon’s for a short while that conversely seemed an eternity, and he was comforted to find he did not have to speak for her expression to change, as she instantly compassed–or deduced–some measure of events befalling him since his leaving Mayefair.

She swayed, and Clare might have thought his own appearance was such as to discommode her. Mikal stepped forward, she took his arm with alacrity, and Clare realised the blood on her skirts had to be her own.

He had already gained his feet. So had Pico, who was first off the mark.

“It ent as bad as it looks, mum.” Did the lad actually sound abashed?

“I certainly hope not.” Her tone was dry, and an immense relief. “Whitchapel?”

“Limhoss first.” Pico shrugged when Clare glanced at him. “Not like she wouldn’t guess, squire.”

“Ah.” She leaned heavily on Mikal’s arm. The Shield swept the door closed with a curious hooking motion of his foot, and the slam reverberated. “Aberline’s habits have not changed. Is that tea?”

Pico hurried to the service, and her gaze returned to Clare’s. They studied each other for a long moment, again.

“Good morning, Clare. Your arm…?” Even her lips were pale, and her childish mouth had lost its usual determined set.

“Yes, ah–good morning, yes. A whip.” Another shudder worked through him, he denied it. “The creature is deuced unnatural.”

“Ah.” She nodded, slightly, and Clare remembered his manners. He motioned her towards the huge leather chair. “It has been rather a trying night for both of us, it seems. Please, take the chair.”

She chose instead the overstuffed hassock, and sank down with a slight grimace. Iron-straight, as usual–but something in the set of her shoulders told Clare she remained upright through will alone. He had rarely seen her in such a state before.

Pico brought her another thick glazed mug of tea. “No cream, mum.”

“It shall suffice, thank you. Have you had breakfast, Philip?”

“No mum. Wasn’t time. Shall I?”

“See what you can find us; I declare I could eat an entire barrowful of pasty, no matter how rancid.” She nodded, then turned her attention to Clare as Mikal handed the lad the requisite funds. “Did you find Aberline’s method of seeking connexions between crime and criminal enlightening?”

“Was that what he was about?” The faint, poppy-hazed memory of Aberline’s lips moving, quite strangely, rose before him. “I confess I was rather busy with my own reflections at the time.”

The door closed behind Pico, and Miss Bannon shut her eyes, inhaling the steam from her cup. She really was quite awfully pallid. Yet her dark gaze was as disconcertingly direct as ever when she reopened her lids. “I am about to tell you something which cannot leave this room, Archibald.”

“I shall be discreet,” he returned, a trifle stiffly.

“I do trust you shall, and yet I must make absolutely certain you understand the gravity of what I am about to say.” She inhaled deeply, for all the world as if steeling herself. “I believe we are facing a mad sorcerer.”

“Again?” He could not help himself.

She acknowledged the sally with a tiny, wan smile. “Who has managed to find a means of creating a new genius of rule, draining the resources of Britannia in order to do so. He means to supplant the ruling spirit of Englene, Archibald.”

He dropped into the chair. Its stuffing groaned in protest, and lukewarm tea slopped out of the rather rustic mug. He frankly stared, and Miss Bannon was too busy gazing into her own mug to notice.

Mikal, near the door, was a statue with burning yellow irises.

“And I very much think,” she continued, after taking a prim sip and grimacing slightly at the harshness of the reboiled tea, “that he has quite a chance of succeeding.”

Whatever reply Clare might have uttered was lost in Mikal’s murmured warning. The Shield moved aside, the door opened with far less force this time, and Inspector Aberline hurried through, his jacket as torn as Pico’s but his sturdy shoes in much better order than they should have been.