The Ripper Affair

“There are laws against such things, no doubt Miss Bannon would know them with a fair degree of precision.” Clare gave up seeking to straighten his jacket. It was hopeless. “I would not stoop to blackmail, sir. Instead, I would appeal to your better nature.”

“Funny, that.” A sour, pained grin. “I am here, Mr Clare, because I have precious little better nature left. Now do leave my office.”

“Gladly,” Clare said stiffly, and suited actions to words.

Pico, his eyes suspiciously round, said not a word. He merely clutched his burlap burden and hurried in Clare’s wake.

Chapter Thirty-Four Very Precise Conditions

The broadsheets screamed, their ink acid-fresh. Double Murder In Whitchapel. “Leather Apron”–Two More Victims! Speculations of the most vivid nature shared the columns with sober warnings against Vice and breathless tales of the want and violence flourishing just as the Scab did. On the Recent Events in Whitchapel. Drawings of the discovery of the bodies–Clare was not mentioned. Naturally, his discretion would have been easy to secure.

Waring’s discretion had required no little amount of threat and blandishment in equal proportion. The commissioner was in an insufferable position, and it matched his temperament roundly. Still, he was useful, and she was fairly certain he would be the public face for whatever triumph or tragedy this affair would end with.

Emma glanced over the headlines, directed Horace to deposit the broadsheets in her library, and fixed Finch with a steady gaze. Her head throbbed and her filthy dress was likely to give her a rash, she ached to be clean. Duty demanded she deal with Finch’s nerves first. “You are perfectly safe, Geoffrey.”

“Oh, I know that, mum.” He had only paled slightly upon hearing the news of their dinner guest.

“Do you?” She made a slight movement, checked herself. Finch regarded her steadily, and she searched his features quite closely.

Madame Noyon appeared at the head of the stairs and bustled down, clucking over the state of her mistress’s dress.

Finch nodded, slowly. “Yesmum. I do.” There was a hint of a smile about his thin mouth now. “Rather pity the man, mum.”

Relief filled her; she turned to the next order of business. “Then you are a kinder soul than I. I shall leave dinner in your–and Cook’s–capable hands. They shall be in the smoking room afterwards; do make certain there are the cigars Clare prefers. And your nephew as well. He has rendered very tolerable service indeed so far.”

“Glad to hear it, mum.” He waited, but she had nothing further, and he consequently glided away.

“A mess,” Severine Noyon fussed, her plump hands waving as she arrived at Emma’s side. “Good heavens, madame, what did you do to yourself? A bath, and quickly. Chocolat.”

I could eat a hanging side of beef and ask for more. “And something substantial for breakfast, Madame, I have a quite unladylike appetite.”

“Mais oui, madame.” The round little woman in her customary black wool ushered Emma toward the stairs. “Catherine! Chocolat, and much breakfast for Madame in the solarium. Sunshine, oui, to make her strong. Isobel! Attendez!”

The house filled with efficient bustling, a bath was filled, and Emma sighed with contentment as she sank into hot rose-scented water. There was no time for soaking, however. In short order she was drawn forth, chafed dry, laced loosely into fresh stays and a morning gown. Fresh jewellery was selected, her hair arranged by Isobel’s quick fingers, and chocolat was there to greet her in the solarium. A hearty platter of bangers, scones, fruit, and a bowl of porridge were arranged in her favoured morning spot, and there was a bottle of nerve tonic set conspicuously to one side of the chocolat-pot.

Emma suppressed a grimace. Cook must have glimpsed her in the hall, to be so worried about her condition. Her servants did sometimes make small gestures.

The solarium was full of strengthening morning light, filtered grey through Londinium’s fog. Spatters of rain touched glass, puffing into thin traceries of steam when they touched the golden charter symbols scrolling lazily through the transparent panes, reinforcing and defending the fragility. The charm-globes over those of her plants more tender or needing training tinkled softly, each one a different note in the soothing symphony of morning.

Unfortunately, Emma’s nerves were not soothed.

Hard on breakfast’s heels Mikal also arrived, freshly scrubbed and only a little pale from the night’s excitement.

Emma had settled herself, let him stand for a few moments, filling her plate with measured greed. Fortunately her domestics were accustomed to her sometimes-unlady-like appetite, and she needed to replace a great deal of physical energy if she was to carry out her plans.