The Ripper Affair

Chapter Nine How Many Acquaintances

A few effects stuffed higgledy-piggledy into his trusty Gladstone, and Clare halted to stare at the bed. It was neatly made, the linens snow-white and the red velvet counterpane as familiar as the worn quilt covering his narrow Baker Street bed. Here the furniture was heavy and dark, of a quality to last; his flat seemed rather shabby in comparison.

How many times had he slept here, though? Contemplated a case at Miss Bannon’s dinner table, had a companionable tea in the solarium–both of them silent except for a Pass the marmalade, if you please or a How droll, this article claims thus-and-such? How many times had Miss Bannon quietly arranged matters to suit him, or anticipated his need for a particular item? A woman’s sorcery, she would remark, brushing aside his thanks.

He was behaving most shabbily. The voice of Logic demanded he halt and consider, and he would heed that dictate before pausing to even consider the voice of Manners.

His breathing came heavily. His heart thundered in his chest, the heart she had repaired–Valentinelli had dragged him here, spattered with ordure and in the throes of a severe angina. Miss Bannon had not questioned or demurred in the slightest. Instead, she had thrown her considerable, if illogical, resources into working a miracle to keep Clare alive. It was Miss Bannon who had brought him to Ludovico in the first instance, during the affair with the army of mecha. Protection for Clare’s tender person, indeed.

He would not, if he understood her correctly, have to fear a repeat occurrence of the angina, or the slow clouding of old age. His faculties would remain undimmed. The greatest fear a mentath could suffer, set aside with breathtaking speed.

The fear of physical harm, never overwhelming for a mentath used to calculating probability and setting aside Feeling, was now non-existent.

The possibilities for experimentation were utterly boggling.

He could, no doubt, find a fraction of coja at an apothecary’s, and begin there. Clare snapped the Gladstone closed. He glanced at the door, opening his mouth to tell Valentinelli…

… absolutely nothing. The Neapolitan’s place was empty, and would remain so.

Now there was an avenue of thought best left unexplored: dealing with how many acquaintances Clare would outlast.

If I had known, I would not have allowed him to attend the trial. The danger was clear.

How could he have halted the Neapolitan, though? Stubborn as a brick, that man. And why had Miss Bannon not inflicted this burden on him? They were two cats, the sorceress and the assassin, disdainful but never far from each other, sidelong glances and mincing steps. Valentinelli had been married once, but the name of his wife was a mystery, just as so much else about him.

His last word, strega, whispered the way another might take a lover’s name into the dark.

The dark Clare would not experience for a long, long while. How long? Was there any way to tell? Questions! Questions that required answers.

He sank his sweating fists into the velvet counterpane. Bent over until his forehead touched the bag’s use-blackened handles, and attempted to impose some order on his scattered thoughts.

It came slowly. The rest of him was wet with sweat by the time he braced his arms and straightened, his knees creaking.

“I should apologise.” It was not quite the thing for a mentath to speak to himself. It was rather a sign of uncertain faculties, wasn’t it? “I treated her most dreadfully. Yes.”

He found himself at his chamber door, clutching the bag with a sopping hand. A great undifferentiated mass of Feeling rose again, swamping him, and he dropped the Gladstone with a solid, meaty thump that unseated his usually excellent digestion.

He could not remember breakfast, but he bolted for the water closet and evacuated it in a most decided fashion, pausing to suck in deep breaths between the heaves and wincing at the taste of his own bile.