The Ripper Affair

“I believe it may be similar to a Charington’s Familiar.” Miss Bannon took a mannerly sip of water from a restrained crystal goblet. The gryphon-carved table legs were not restless, as they sometimes were when her mood was unsettled. “At first the Prime would have to kill on his own account–Tebrem, for example, he chose to cut in a relatively sheltered location. Afterward the spirit could commit its own foul acts–but only at night, I should think. There is some physical focus for this spirit, some piece of it that held it to the fleshly world while sorcerous force was poured into it, and until it may walk in daylight that focus is vulnerable. Additionally, each location has become a taproot driven deeply into Londinium to gather force from the city’s essence, if you will… I do wonder, why a coachman?”

“It seems rather… plebeian… for a ruling spirit,” Aberline observed.

“The spirit of our time is rather plebeian.” Clare savoured a bite of roast; the sauce held a flavour he had not yet defined. “One only has to take the train to ascertain as much, or a turn about Picksdowne.”

“Some hold that Britannia was once the local spirit of Colchestre, a humble minder of pottery.” Miss Bannon regarded her plate with a serious, thoughtful expression. “Books which speak of such a possibility are difficult to procure, for obvious reasons.”

“That’s all well and good.” Aberline had a remarkably hearty appetite, for a man sitting at table with a woman he regarded as a viper. “How do we stop this bas—ah, this mad sorcerer?”

Miss Bannon glanced at the dining-room door. Not for Mikal, certainly, for he did not attend dinner. Nor for Valentinelli. Pico would dine with the servants tonight; Miss Bannon had given orders.

Clare found his busy faculties turning these few facts about and around, seeking to make them fit together. There was a missing piece.

“There is… well, there is fair news, and foul.” Miss Bannon ceased to even pretend to consume her dinner, pushing her plate back slightly with a fingertip. The tourmaline ring flashed. “Much was decided with the first murder. Every death since then has narrowed the possibilities, so to speak. Such is the way of such Works of sorcery. I believe this mad Prime is very close to achieving his purpose.”

“That’s foul enough news.” Aberline took another mouthful of roast, and Clare, troubled, set his fork and knife down.

Miss Bannon’s small smile held no amusement. “That was actually the fair news, Inspector. He requires a very specific victim for the culmination of his last series of murders, and I believe he has settled on one.”

“Then how do we find her? Whitchapel teems with drabs.”

“Finding her is my task,” Miss Bannon returned, equably enough. “Do enjoy your dinner now, Inspector. Afterwards I shall inform you of your part in the plan.”

Aberline’s gaze darted to Clare, who began to have a very odd sensation in his middle. The inspector looked ready to object, and visibly thought better of it. “You are confident in your ability to find, out of all the unfortunates in Whitchapel, the one our Leather Apron has settled on?”

“Quite confident.” Miss Bannon’s faint smile bore a remarkable resemblance to a grimace of pain. She took another sip of water. “Quite confident indeed. I would explain, but sometimes a Work must not be spoken of.” She pushed her chair back, and both men leapt to their feet as she rose. “My apologies, sirs. My digestion is somewhat disarranged. Please, enjoy the remainder of dinner, I implore you. The smoking room is ready for you afterwards.”

Her black skirts rustled as she swept past Clare, and he discovered that she was not, as he had thought earlier, wearing perfume.

How peculiar. He settled once more into his chair, and Aberline applied himself to the roast in earnest. Finch was not serving tonight; Horace and Gilburn would bring the next course in due time. It was, Clare reflected, almost as if the house were his, and this a quiet dinner with a colleague or a fascinating resource.

“Have I been pleasant enough?” Aberline did not wait for a reply. “What do you make of that?”

“I am quite puzzled, I confess.” It is not like Miss Bannon to have a troubled digestion. Where is Mikal?

“No need to let it ruin one’s appetite. She dines well, if early.”

Clare almost replied, but another thought struck him.

It will be growing dark, and Tideturn is soon.

His faculties woke further, seeking to weave together disparate bits of information and deduction. Some critical piece was missing, and had he not been so… uneven… lately, he might already have it. Feeling did its best to blur Logic and Reason, and he had indulged himself too far in its whirling.

Did it matter, what irrational act Miss Bannon had committed upon him? It did not, and with the clarity of Logic he could even see why she had not told him. She had been… right, it seemed.