The Ripper Affair

He noticed the two new occupants of his office and stopped short, his greeting dying somewhere in the region of his throat.

“Dear God,” the inspector said. “You two look dreadful.”

Clare expected Miss Bannon to give the inspector short shrift. Instead, she surprised both of them by giving Aberline the same news, preceded by the same dire warning of secrecy.

His reaction was no less marked than Clare’s own. The man actually staggered; Mikal was at his shoulder in a heartbeat, holding him up.

Miss Bannon took another sip of tea. “Take him to his desk, Mikal. The inspector thinks better in familiar surroundings.”

It was, Clare supposed, rather a mark of Aberline’s intelligence that he did not waste time on superfluous questions or doubt. Instead, he settled himself behind his desk rather creakily, as if afflicted by old age. Mikal glided to the tea service, and poured two more mugs.

Apparently the Shield required a cuppa for bracing as well.

“This is extremely grave,” Miss Bannon continued. “If it becomes public knowledge–or even not-so-public knowledge–every sorcerer with enough ambition and corresponding lack of scruple shall attempt such a thing.”

“How many, precisely, would that be?” Clare’s hands had steadied. “I am not attempting any merriment,” he added hurriedly. “I am very curious.”

Miss Bannon’s weary shrug made her ripped veil tremble. She had tucked it aside, and her red-rimmed eyes seemed to be troubling her as they often did. “All it takes is one among sorcery’s children, in any country possessing a spirit of rule, to cause chaos. Strife will inevitably follow, and competing spirits may well tear the map of Europa asunder. Who knows what may happen in Chinois or the Indus? The New World may be safe enough, but the method of creating such a spirit can no doubt be adapted. In sorcery, as in science, the mere knowledge that such a thing is possible means sufficient determination will find a way.”

“Bloody sorcerers,” Aberline muttered.

“Quite.” Miss Bannon’s soft tone did not alter. “No doubt you are lucky to not be among their number, Inspector.”

Aberline’s response was even more interesting. His throat and cheeks turned an ugly brick red. “And curse you too, you foul-skirted little—”

“Inspector!” Clare had not meant to say it loudly. Nor had he meant to leap to his feet, whereupon he slopped lukewarm tea out of its mug again. “Mind yourself, sir!”

Silence filled the office. Miss Bannon sighed, and slumped wearily. To see her posture crumble was shocking enough, but to see Mikal’s reaction–he dug his fingers into her delicate shoulder cruelly, hawk’s talons on a small soft piece of prey–was simply dreadful.

She straightened, and took another mannerly sip of tea. “Much as I would dearly like to hold an accounting with you, Aberline, it serves much better to use your particular talents–including those you wish you possessed more than a pittance of–otherwise.”

“And who are you serving?” Aberline’s colour had not faded. “Any sorcerer could do this, you say—”

“It requires a Prime, not that such a distinction matters to you. Nevertheless, I shall overlook your rather base and certainly groundless accusation. I could retreat behind my walls and let this affair take its course. Indeed, I am rather tempted to. It does not matter to me, sir. To be perfectly frank, neither do you.”

“Likewise,” Aberline managed, in a choked whisper.

“Then we understand each other.” Miss Bannon did not look at him. She studied her tea as if it held a secret, and Clare began to feel faintly ridiculous, but unwilling to sink back into the chair. His foot had stopped throbbing, and he realised with a certain relief that he was finally free of the poppy’s effects.

Make a note, Clare. It lingers for hours. Acceptable in some cases, but not in all. His faculties shivered inside his skull, and the irrationality of the creature in Mytre Square receded into a mental drawer for further study later, if necessary.

His straightening and throat-clearing focused every gaze in the room upon him. “Such discussions do nothing to impede this madman,” he observed. “Miss Bannon, it appears you have a plan, or at least the glimmerings of one. Be so kind as to tell us our parts.”

“And you will perform them without question or qualm?” The words quite lacked her accustomed crispness. She sounded rather as if she doubted the notion.

“Yes,” Clare said, immediately. “And so will the good inspector, and I do not even have to wonder upon your Shield’s willingness. Each of us in this room is a loyal subject of Britannia. Besides, this affair is an affront to public order. One simply cannot have this… thing… running about, murdering as it pleases.”

“And yet women die every night, in the Eastron End and elsewhere, under the lash and the knife.” Miss Bannon shook her head. “Forgive me, Clare. I am weary enough to be unnecessarily philosophical.”