The Ripper Affair

She betrayed a certain familiarity with Whitchapel. The listening look she wore, when inside its environs. Her origins, however obscure, were no doubt of a sort to make her familiar with Want, Vice, Crime, and other unsavouries. She was also connected to Victrix, and hence Britannia, in numerous ways. Not to mention her rather incredible ability to find a treasonous criminal once she set herself seriously about it.

It would make quite a bit of sense for this lunatic sorcerer to see her too great a threat to continue breathing.

It would further make quite a bit of sense for Miss Bannon to wave herself before such a man in the manner of a rag waved before a bull to engage its fury.

She had such a distressing habit of disregarding her personal safety.

Emma. For God’s sake. Do not… do not be…

He forced himself to think upon it, the cold tearing in his vitals savagely repressed. “She is not dead,” he said, finally, conscious of the lie. He told himself it was necessary, that the Shield would be of more use if he held to faint hope. “She is most likely incapacitated in some manner. Pico, my pistol.” He accepted the weapon with a nod. “Now, gentlemen, I trust everyone here sees the course we must take.”

“I am afraid I most certainly do not see—” Aberline began.

Clare fixed him with a steady gaze. “Your knowledge of the worst sinks in Whitchapel, where I have deduced this monster is no doubt hiding, is very valuable. We may even, should we be forced to, find a poppy den and hope your small talent at sorcery will help. I am quite prepared to be ungentlemanly about this, sir, and furthermore, Mr Mikal will take it badly should you give anything less than your full effort to finding our sorceress.”

Aberline had gone the colour of milk. He glanced at Mikal, opened his mouth, shut it, and nodded. There was a fire in the back of his dark gaze that promised much trouble later.

At the moment, Clare did not care one whit.

Emma. He had to examine his pistol, critically, as if assuring himself of its readiness.

Bulldog. Made by Webley, very fine. Gift from Emma, to replace the pepperbox. Fully loaded. His faculties replayed the loading procedure, but just to be certain, he checked the chambers. Five shots, .450 Addams cartridges, and there were more in his pockets, should he need them. For emergencies, the sorceress had said with a smile, presenting him with the walnut box.

He swallowed, very hard, and slid the weapon into its holster. A moment’s work had it buckled to his belt, and the familiar weight was not nearly soothing enough.

Archibald Clare drew himself up to his full, if somewhat lean, height. “Pico, lad, go and tell your uncle we shall be taking the carriage, if Miss Bannon left it for us. On the shelf in my workroom you will find a decent purse for just such occasions as this. Mr Aberline, come with me; you shall be clothed properly for our descent. Mr Mikal—”

“I know my part,” the Shield replied, and turned on his heel.

“If you feel any inkling of Miss Bannon’s, er, location—”

“You shall know. And if not… vengeance.” He disappeared to the far side of the stairs, no doubt heading for the stable to rouse the coachman. “Hurry.”

“Never fear,” Aberline commented sourly. “The sooner this is finished, the better.”

“I hope she’s alive, Inspector.” Clare paused. “For your sake.”

The man actually bristled. “Do you mean you—”

“No, you need not worry about me. You do, however, need to worry about Mikal. Come, let us find you more suitable cloth.”

“Stop!” Aberline cried, and almost threw himself from the carriage. He would have landed ignominiously face-first on cobbles if not for Pico’s lightning-quick reflex to grab at his jacket; Harthell cursed roundly as he pulled the vehicle to a juddering halt. The clockhorses, unhappy at being roused at this hour and further unhappy at such treatment, let their displeasure be known.

“Canning!” Aberline hailed what Clare, blinking, perceived to be a hurrying shape on the pavement. “I say, man, halt!”

“What the devil–oh, it’s you.” The voice had an odd lilt, possibly Eirean. “Where have you been? Don’t you know?”

“Obviously I do not, sir.” Aberline motioned the man closer. “What news?”

Clare squinted, and made out what had to be a fellow inspector. The man’s hat plainly shouted he was of the Yard, and his serviceable shoes held steaming traces of Scab’s kiss. He was bandy-legged and thick-necked, and when he stepped under a sputtering gaslamp, Clare could see bright blue eyes and a reddened nose. Fog-moisture clung to his jacket and hat, and the steaming from his shoes added vapour to the choking mist.

How very odd. He had not, in his small experience of the organic sludge coating Whitchapel’s floor, seen it behave in just this way.

“Another murder. The worst yet. Dorsitt Street. And the Scab… well.”

“The Scab? What of it?”