The Ripper Affair

His progress through the house was slow and stilted, and it was only when he was within his dark, narrow room–she had left it to be modified according to his whim, and rarely entered it–that she relaxed her grip even slightly. The slam of his door flung closed with sorcerous force was the snap of a wineglass’s stem in clenched fingers.

Emma blinked, her eyes watering. Surely it was only her Discipline. Tears would be a weakness.

She settled to her breakfast, eating with mechanical good manners. She needed the fuel. Her cheeks were wet, and her morning dress, black watered silk as wasp-waisted Prima Grinaud had always worn, was dotted with tiny splashes of hot salt water.

Now, many years after her graduation from under the grand magistrix’s thumb, she wondered who–or what–Prima Grinaud had been mourning. Or if the redoubtable lady had entombed herself at the Collegia alive to escape the world outside.

How long would it be before Emma herself was tempted to do the same?

Chapter Thirty-Five Quite Confident Indeed

Falling into bed, Clare decided, had done him a world of good. His Baker Street flat was indeed dusty, and full of the ghost of a Neapolitan assassin, but he had not cared. His narrow bed smelled rather vile, but he burrowed into its familiarity and was lost to darkness. Pico could have breakfast; Clare wished surcease.

He woke at early teatime when the lad nudged him, and made his toilet with the focused inattention bred of habit and familiarity. Pico exhibited the instincts of a good valet, fussing over Clare’s clothing in a manner that was almost familiar. He also charmed the redoubtable Mrs Ginn, sweetening the landlady much more than Valentinelli had ever cared to. The tea tray was not up to Miss Bannon’s standards, but Clare welcomed it nonetheless, and Pico confined himself to remarking upon the weather and asking Clare’s opinion of this or that waistcoat.

It was not until their arrival at Miss Bannon’s gate that Pico betrayed a certain nervousness, rubbing at his freshly shaven cheek. “She might not be happy.”

“That is exceedingly likely,” Clare allowed, straightening his cuffs. They were a trifle late–a hansom, he thought irritably, was never about when one needed it. “She does prefer punctuality.”

“Well, at least you’re alive, right? And in one piece. My heart fair gave out when you vanished in the riot, sir. Never been so glad to find someone in my life.” Pico blinked sleepily, his sharp foxface pale as milk.

“No fear on that account,” Clare murmured. The thought no longer sent a sharp pang through him. Quiet and familiar, Brooke Street nonetheless had the appearance of a foreign country. Perhaps he was simply seeing it with fresh eyes.

The cadaverous Finch took Clare’s hat, and he was imperturbable as usual. “The drawing room, sir.”

“Thank you.” There was an odd sensation just under his breastbone. “Has, ahem, the inspector arrived?” And were you prepared to face him?

“Yes, sir.” Finch’s manner betrayed no discomfiture.

“He, erm… he did not upset you, Finch?” Enquiring in this manner was so bloody awkward. Finch gave him a rather curious look, and Pico coughed.

“No, sir.” And that, apparently, was that. Finch motioned for Pico to follow him, and the lad went without question or qualm.

Miss Bannon had taken steps to reassure him, apparently. It was entirely like her.

The drawing room was full of clear, serene light, its mirrors dancing and the fancy of waterlilies and birch stems never more marked. There was even a subtle freshness in the air, but perhaps that was Miss Bannon’s perfume–for the lady in question had settled herself on the blue velvet settee, and Inspector Aberline, his hands clasped behind his back, stood gazing into the fireplace, where burning coal had developed a thick white cover.

Miss Bannon’s dark eyes had crescents of bruise-darkness underneath them, yet her posture was as straight as ever. She was markedly pale, though, and her mien was of careful thoughtfulness. Only her hands, lying prettily in her lap and bedecked with four plain silver rings on the left and a large yellow tourmaline on her right middle finger, betrayed any tension.

Inspector Aberline’s colour was high, and his coat and shoes had been given a thorough brushing. He had obviously repaired to his home at some point, much as Clare had.

He was long to remember this moment: the peculiar brightness of the light, Miss Bannon’s exhausted face, and Aberline’s clenched jaw.

Clare braced himself, and shut the door.

Dinner was superb, of course, but Miss Bannon ate very little. Nor did she take anything but water. “It used its whip upon you?”

“Yes.” Clare set his implements down properly, indicated the length of the slash along his forearm. “It seemed quite put out at being disturbed.”

“What on earth is it?” Aberline wondered aloud. “What method was used in its construction?”