The Ripper Affair

“See the rings in the metal, there? And there? Chrysfire. Untraceable, unlike witchflame.” Aberline dug in his pocket, wiped his forehead with a wilting handkerchief. “It bears little stamp of the kindler’s personality. Sorcery is a distinctly personal art.”

“Miss Bannon often remarked as much.” Clare crouched, Aberline holding the lanthorn higher to shed some gleams upon the charred mess. “Quite a bit of cloth. None of it the quality that a lady might wear.”

Aberline glanced back at the bed, struck by a thought. “Her teeth. Of course. It cannot be her. I am a fool. Well, what do we do now? I confess I am at a loss.”

“You will not like the direction my thoughts are tending.”

“I fancy I won’t.”

“Most poppy users reserve a small amount, rather in the manner of a talisman against want of the substance.” As do most users of coja. Perhaps a fraction of that sweet white powder would help. Clare shut the thought away. “Do you?”

“You are correct.” Aberline had gone pale. “You wish me to…”

A gleam caught Clare’s eye. He leaned forward. How odd. “A button,” he murmured. “A very familiar one, at that.”

“What?” Mystified, Aberline nevertheless lowered the lanthorn a touch.

“Why on earth would the creature burn its own coat, too?” He settled on his heels. “Mikal. He might know.” The ashes were still warm, but Clare’s fingers had lost none of their deftness. He tossed the button from palm to palm, rather like a baked potato, and saw with some satisfaction that he was correct. It had the faint impress of a ship’s anchor upon its false-brass face, and though deformed by heat it was indubitably the same button the Coachman-thing had worn upon its coat.

“In any case,” he continued, “this is an item from the creature’s coat. I believe a physical object can be of use in finding a certain person’s location?”

“Sympathy? I have none of the power for such an operation.” Aberline had gone quite pale.

“Let us hope Mikal does.” Clare straightened, rising. “For he may compel you to attempt, power or no.”

A few questions elicited the most likely name of the unfortunate upon the bed–Marie-Jinnete, surnamed Kelly, also called Black Mary. She had retired to her room after dark with a customer, and not been discovered until one of her other suitors or customers returned to batter at her door and make quite a scene, thinking her unfaithful.

Which of course she was, and had paid harshly for it. She had been many shillings behind on the rent for the sad little corner she inhabited, which no doubt led to the decision to peer through the broken window, and consequently force the door.

The missing sorceress had most likely been nowhere near this corner of Whitchapel during the night.

The Shield’s face was as white as Aberline’s, and just as set. The Yard men in the small court–named after a miller, though there had likely never been one of that persuasion plying his trade here–were at the other end, doing their best to hold back the crowd. Mikal’s long coppery fingers turned the small lump of metal over, thoughtfully. “He does not have the power,” he said, finally, jutting his chin at Aberline. “And I may only use such a Sympathy in close proximity to my Prima.”

“How close?” Clare all but hopped from foot to foot.

Mikal shrugged. “Within her very presence. I do not understand, though–if she is alive, I should feel her…” His pause was matched by a curious change in expression. “Unless…”

“Unless?” Clare prompted.

Was it hope, dawning on the Shield’s features? Weary, disbelieving hope, perhaps. “Unless she is far underground, or behind certain defences. Hothin’s water-wall, for example, or a muirglass.”

“Underground?” A little colour had come back to Aberline’s face. “Hm.”

The silence that grew about them had all the crackling urgency of the breath before a storm’s breaking.

Clare let them cogitate. Beside him, the lad Pico had tensed too, as a bloodhound scenting prey.

“Scare’s Row.” Pico sported feverish spots on both cheeks, and kept wiping his mouth nervously. His shoulder touched Aberline’s, and neither moved away from the contact. The situation was rather beginning to paper over their personal differences, and it was high time, too. “Fan End, too.”

“Crithen’s Church.” Aberline nodded. “That’s where I’d go.”

“Do speak clearly, sirs.” Clare eyed the crowd at the end of the court. There was an air of carnivorous festival about the whole scene he did not quite like, even if he was heartened to find all four men upon whom Miss Bannon was now depending finally behaving reasonably

“Tunnels. From the Pax Latium, it’s said. Sometimes they’re rumoured to have beasts living in them, like near the Tower.” Pico made as if to spit, reconsidered. “Bad business, all of them.”