The Ripper Affair

Chapter Thirteen Wholly Unguarded Sentiments

“Marian Nickol, called Polly, though the inquest will legally ascertain her identity.” Clare blinked owlishly at the scrawls upon the thin paper as the carriage jolted. “Found by a carter on Bucksrow, near the Hospital. Slashed throat. Abdominal injuries… Omentum, uterus… sharp object… peculiar, most peculiar.”

“Indeed,” Miss Bannon murmured. She had a queer look upon her soft little face: distant, as if listening to faraway music.

A copy of the particulars of this and another murder had been prepared in advance of their arrival, and Clare had noticed Miss Bannon’s tiny moue of distaste when that was discovered. Perhaps she resented the Queen’s easy assumption of her pet sorceress’s service? How could Her Majesty be certain, though, given how Miss Bannon had scrupulously avoided such service for… how long now?

When the Consort had died of a fever perhaps typhoid in origin–his health never having been very strong after the Red Plague had wracked Londinium–Miss Bannon had not worn mourning, as many of Britannia’s subjects affected. Indeed, she had merely drunk a little more rum than was her wont at supper, and retreated to her study instead of to the smoking room, where Clare was habituated to sit and discuss various and sundry with her afterwards, as if she were a man at a dinner party.

The particulars were an easily solved conundrum. Britannia had more than one sorcerer or mentath in Her service, and the pages could easily have served another. He brought his attention back to the report, which held the details of the body’s discovery as well. “The first–Marta Tebrem–was found in Whitchapel, too. Georgeyard Building. Stairs–first-floor landing. Dashed odd, that.”

“Not if she was an unfortunate.” Her gloved hands were clasped together a trifle too tightly. “I would be surprised if she did not bring a customer to that place more than once. Or if she sheltered there, to sleep.”

“Ah.” He coughed slightly. “Yes. I see.”

She sat bolt upright, as usual, and had tucked the veil aside for the nonce. Two spots of hectic colour burned high up on her soft cheeks, and he was struck by how impossibly vital she appeared. Primes had long lives, certainly… he had taken it for granted that she would outlast him.

What an unpleasant thought. And followed by others equally unprepossessing, much like a steam-locomotive dragging carriage after carriage.

Even steam-locomotives possessed charmed whistles, and sorcerous reinforcement upon their boilers. A triumph of Science, yes, but larded with irrational sorcery.

One would have to go far, Clare had found, to escape such things.

“Out of the rain, and dark,” Miss Bannon continued, “though I would chance a guess that the first victim was also much under the influence of gin the night of her misfortune. We cannot rule the choice of venue as hers until we examine it. The murderer may have taken her to the building while she was not quite of right mind, impersonating a client for her bodily services.”

Of course, they would start with the first murder, and take the chain of deduction from there. It was how they began an affair such as this if time permitted, seeking the site of the first event they could distinguish. There was a certain comfort in the habit, Clare supposed. “She was last seen with a Guardsman, it says.”

“Of course that may have been…” When she did not continue, he looked up from the papers. She stared out the window, and her fierce gaze was not ameliorated by matted eyelashes and reddened, brimming eyes. Her left hand had clenched, and she had sunk her pearly teeth into her lower lip, cruelly.

For the first time since he had met her, Clare was witnessing her wholly unguarded sentiments. The moment was so novel he almost crushed the papers as the carriage rocked itself, and his mouth had gone dry.

It took another cough before he could speak, and the sound served to alert her to his scrutiny. She smoothed her expression with amazing rapidity, and reached up to free the veil from its fastening. Her rings flashed, a heatless fire.

“Miss Bannon—”

“The morning has disarranged me.” Her face was swallowed by darkness again. “Please, continue. I shall be better shortly.”

“Miss Bannon, I—”

“The report, Clare. Please do continue.”

He swallowed dryly, and forced himself to concentrate. “The medical examiner, in both cases, was quite thorough. There seems nothing missing from the notes. The most recent gentleman performing that duty–Killeen? Yes, that is his name–shall no doubt be at the Nickol inquest.”

“Which you shall attend.”

“Should time permit. Will you?”

“No.” A slight shake of her veiled head. “I think I shall be hunting for clews in other quarters. There was a great deal of… disturbance about the body. I am uncertain what to make of it, and I think I shall be quite occupied in ferreting out the source.”

“Hm.” He digested this, and halted before he could make the quick glance aside that would ascertain whether or not Valentinelli had anything to add. The rattling of pebbles against a coffin’s lid rolled inside his skull, deafening like the roar of traffic and crowd noise outside. “You are expecting further unpleasantness, sooner rather than later.”

“Oh, yes. The first murder appears, if I may make a ghastly observation, merely a rehearsal. First we shall view the scene of Tebrem’s discovery.”

Did he imagine the slight unsteadiness of her tone? It could be blamed upon the carriage ride–Clare steadied himself as the conveyance rattled again. “And then?”

“Then we shall view the second, and return home for dinner–I am quite sorry, but we shall likely miss tea. Tomorrow, you shall visit quite another Yard.” She returned her now-loosened hands to her black-clad lap, and Clare found himself wondering if her face was contorting again behind the veil. “If I may presume to suggest as much.”

“Of course.” He looked back at the paper. “I was dashed brutal to you, Emma. I apologise.”

“Unnecessary, sir.” Yet the words remained thoughtful, rather than dismissive. “I understand a temperament such as yours would find such a revelation quite a shock. Pray set yourself at ease.”

He was not quite ready, he decided, to be treated with such cool politeness. He had seen her employ such a tone before, to set an overly familiar interlocutor back on his heels, so to speak. Were he not a mentath, Clare acknowledged, such a realisation might sting. Nevertheless, he soldiered on. “No reason to act so ungentlemanly, indeed. I am… I was fond of Ludovico, but—”

“As was I,” she said, colourlessly. “Do continue with the recitation of facts from these papers, sir. There is a mystery at hand, and I wish it unravelled as soon as possible, so I may return to my accustomed habits.”