The Ripper Affair

Chapter Twelve Corpses Rarely Are

Chanselmorgue’s spires pierced the waning daylight, thick ochre fog gathering about its walls as it was wont to do in the afternoons. It had been a Papist church long before, one of the many taken by force in the Wifekiller’s time and pressed into service in the most secular ways possible. There was rumour of scenes within its walls during that uncertain time that verged upon the blasphemous, but the Sisters of Chansel kept their archives locked. They still had a convent or two tucked in an inhospitable locale, moors and unhealthful swamps where children and young women of a certain regrettable condition were sent to meditate upon their sins–usually of resistance in some fashion to their disappointed elders. Or, truth be told, if there was an inconvenience in the matter of their drawing breath while an inheritance was in question.

A Chansel Sister was a formidable creature, if only for the chainmail she was suspected of wearing under her habit. Not to mention their particular set of charter symbols. Of all Papist orders, only they and the Templis openly and regularly admitted sorcery’s children. Oh, some of them made it clear they would not turn away a sorcerer or above possessed of the requisite wealth and connections. The Domenici and the Jesuiri were remarkably accepting where filthy lucre or influence was involved, and the Franciscis and Clairias made it a practice to accept the sorriest wretches they could. For most of them, though, the workers of wonders and their defenders were quite beyond the pale.

Feared, respected, allowed to survive in most countries… but beyond.

Chanselmorgue was a four-spired hulk now, with sheds sprouting from its backside in the manner of the huge bustle fashionable some few years ago, like a ridiculous growth. One could still remark the tau, with a writhing corpse nailed to it, worked in the stone over the front doors, and also see the chisel marks where blasphemers had taken advantage of the Wifekiller’s feud with the Papacy to wrench bits of coloured glass and other shiny objects from the facing.

Apparently Emma was expected–perhaps Victrix had been certain of tempting her into action, or had she thought Emma would crumble in the face of a personal visit? Did Victrix have that high an opinion of her own persuasiveness, or of her erstwhile sorceress’s pride?

Do I care? Whatever she thought, I did not agree to more than “If possible”. I wonder if she noted as much.

In any case, it took very little time for a narrow-eyed barrowmancer and a hunched, scuttling morguelrat to guide them to the shed containing the body in question, as well as five others.

As soon as she stepped inside the enclosure–waiting for Mikal’s nod, and followed by a pale Clare holding a handkerchief under his long, sensitive nose–she had no difficulty discerning which one was Nickol.

The barrowmancer–a milk-cheeked young man with greasy dark hair and long fingers, the traditional red stripe on his trousers and his slouched hat pulled low–nodded as she halted, her eyes no doubt widening.

“Aye,” he said, a broad nasal Cocklea accent reverberating around the shed’s flimsy walls. “Enough to put a sour in ye belly, ennit? Doctor co’nae feel it, but he the skullblind. Wasn’t til I saw ’er that anyone realised muckie’d been æther’d aboot.”

“Indeed.” Emma stepped past Mikal, who examined the body of what appeared to be a costermonger laid on a chipped, traditional marble slab, hands and feet pierced with true iron and the gashes scorched with charter symbols to ensure the corpse’s peace. The heavyset man’s mouth was pried open, the funnel for pouring salt or wine into the cavity laid aside. No flatscraper for pitch to seal the spirit away, so the barrowmancer judged him unlikely to have died by violence. “The report?”

“Ah, yes, will fetchit. Ye’re nae gon swoon?”

“I think I may be able to avoid swooning, thank you. In any case, I have plenty of assistance.”

“Aye.” He paused, studying Clare, then shot a dark glance at Mikal. “Ye’re nae gon turn a fillian?”

“I most likely will not be calling her spirit forth to answer questions, never fear.” She tried not to sound amused. “And in any case, I would not do such a thing here. I am not so irresponsible.”

“Well, tha’s mun fair.” He nodded, and touched his hat. “Will fetch tha report, then. Mind you, she’s not decent.”

“Corpses rarely are, sir. Thank you.”

He hurried out, followed by the morguelrat, whose filmed gaze betrayed precious little excitement. Of course, morguels were taken from the workhouse’s lowest strata, since a self-respecting beggar would hesitate to spend his days with the dead. For all that, they had room and board, if they did not mind sharing it with said corpses, and the peculiar blindness that struck after a few years of such work did not seem to bother most of them. Perhaps by then they had seen enough that sightlessness was a blessing.

Odd, how barrowmancers were not feared, though their Discipline was only slightly less Black than Emma’s own. To shake hands with morguelrats was considered just slightly less lucky than with chimneysweeps.

“I do not think I shall ever become accustomed to that,” Clare muttered darkly.

“To what, sir?” There was much in the current situation she herself did not wish to become accustomed to.

“To how casually you speak of bringing a shade forth to answer questions.”

“I have never done it in your presence for a reason, Clare.”

“And I appreciate your restraint.” He all but shuddered, smoothing his jacket sleeves. The black armband, secured with a pin-charm, was a mute reproach.

As if she needed more than the weight of her own mourning-cloth. She did not fully indulge in a widow’s bleakness; perhaps she should the next time she was forced to see the Queen. Although perhaps Victrix would likely take little notice of whatever Emma chose to wear.

“Are you quite well, Clare?” It was not like him to show such discomfort.

“Quite. I…” He shook his head, arranged his hat more firmly upon his head. Mikal, giving the costermonger’s body a thorough appraisal, appeared to ignore them both. “It has been rather a trying… yes, rather a trying week.”

She was about to reply, but her attention fastened afresh on the body she had come to view. How very curious.

The æther trembled around it, not the quiver of a living being producing disturbance and energy or the low foxfire of soul-residue. She stood, head cocked to the side, and took in what she could with every sense, physical or otherwise, she possessed.

Mikal appeared at her shoulder, his hand closing about her upper arm. He had noted her sudden stillness, and was ready to act as anchor or defence.

The corpse in question was a middle-aged woman, heavy and inert on a discoloured marble slab. Her mouth was open, and one could see the stubs of rotten teeth, as well as the searing from the preparatory mixture of hot caustic salts that preceded sour pitch.

Clare stepped to the side, his head cocked at a familiar angle. When he had gained all he could from observing the corpse’s face, he reached for the ragged sheet covering her and glanced at Emma.

She nodded, a fractional movement, but one his eyes were sharp enough to discern. They had examined other bodies; it was, still, not quite routine. Ritual, certainly, though neither of them stood overmuch on ceremony when bodies were involved in an affair such as this.

She closed away that distracting line of thought. Attention was called for.

What is that? There, and there, it moves very peculiarly. And there. Most interesting. I wonder… She extended a tendril of non-physical awareness, delicately, and recoiled swiftly when the æther over the body trembled.

Mikal said nothing, but his awareness sharpened.

Clare twitched the sheet down to the woman’s hips. The marks of a brutal life were clearly visible and the sewn-up gashes from autopsy–and the attack that had killed her–were livid. He folded the sheet with prissy carefulness, then took its edge and uncovered the rest of her, tucking the neat package of cloth at her feet. Her knees turned outward, and the ragged aperture between her legs oozed dark, brackish corpsefluid.

“Most peculiar,” he murmured. “And she was Respectable once, or at least well-fed. Hrm.”

Though the skin hung loosely, and one could see the marks of violence and hard living upon her, there were none of the deformities associated with childhood want or neglect.

She had afterwards fallen far, as Emma could clearly see from the wooden box containing the deceased’s effects. Workhouse cloth, though mended neatly, her boots sprung-sided, and even through the varied reeks of a charnel-house Emma could discern a faint thread of gin. The woman’s round face had begun to blur with drink during life, and a shiver worked its way down Emma’s spine.

A horrid gash in the throat. The marks of frenzied stabbing over the entire torso were vicious too, but the cluster of open, gaping wounds about her parts of privacy were the most worrisome.

That is where the attack was centred, and that is where the disturbance issues from. Her womb.

Emma’s entire body went cold.

This was gruesome news indeed.