The Ripper Affair

Chapter Twenty-Seven A Legitimate Concern

The night passed without incident, and so did the next day, save for the broadsheets screaming of murder in the Eastron End. Those were carried immediately to Miss Bannon’s study. Clare was, of course, supplied with his own.

The without incident disturbed Clare mightily, for Miss Bannon did not appear. She did not take breakfast in the breakfast room or the solarium; she did not lunch; she did not take tea with him. Trays were taken to her study, and Finch’s lean face was grave. The butler gave no information about his mistress’s mood, and Madame Noyon attended to Clare’s tea with a sombre air that was quite unwonted.

The house was in mourning, and Philip appeared every morning wearing a black armband. Just to be mannerly, sir. His bland good nature was irritating in the extreme, but Clare did not take him to task. He also did not gather his effects and retreat to his own Baker Street flat, for some reason he could not quite name.

The fact that reminders of Valentinelli’s presence would fill the rooms there as well was certainly not a consideration, was it?

Late in the evening, Finch tapped at the door of the workroom. Clare had been a trifle surprised at the mess left in that stone-walled room, but Philip had not even blinked at scrubbing the blood off the walls. Tidying the place had taken a day’s worth of work, and he was cogitating upon the advisability of a series of experiments involving his own blood and a spæctroscope.

Philip tossed the door open. “Morning, guv! Come to visit the peasants?”

“You are an annoyance, boy,” Finch replied, quite unperturbed. “Telegram, sir.”

“Telegram?” Clare straightened his sleeves and viewed one of the large wooden tables with satisfaction. A tidy workroom meant a tidy mind, indeed.

“Yes, sir.” Finch’s tone betrayed nothing but neutrality. However, there was a fine sheen of sweat on the butler’s forehead, and there was a slight tremor in the hand that proffered the slip of paper.

It was from Aberline, and the satisfaction of deduction burned through Clare’s skull.

Ah. So it is Finch the inspector would like to pry from Miss Bannon’s grip. It made sense, now–the butler, as one of Miss Bannon’s oddities, had a chequered past. He affected a laborious upper-crust wheeze and a slow, stately walk, but his movements often betrayed a knife-fighters’s awareness of space and familiarity with tight corners. Several interlocking deductions filled Clare’s faculties for a moment–a sweet burn, rather like coja.

The telegram itself was almost an afterthought.

SEARCHING FOR CLEWS STOP REQUEST YOUR PRESENCE STOP

“How very interesting,” Clare murmured. “Is the boy waiting?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Give him tuppence, please. And send for a hansom, there’s a good man.”

“Yes, sir.” Finch retreated, Philip watched with bright interest. His hand twitched, and Finch’s fingers tightened slightly, but the young man merely offered a wide grin.

“Finch?”

“Yes, sir?”

For a moment, he wished to utter an absurdity–Worry not, good man, I shan’t bring the inspector home. Then the likely consequences of such a statement became apparent, bringing him up short. Not to mention the thought of calling Miss Bannon’s house home. He had a flat of his own, did he not?

Then why am I still here? “Do make certain Miss Bannon knows my whereabouts. I do not quite trust the good inspector’s intentions.”

Finch hesitated. He glided for the door, and Clare detected a smidgen of relief on his gaunt face. “Yes, sir,” he said, finally, with a peculiar emphasis on the first word.

So. It was Finch, and I have reassured him. It would not do to remark upon it, but Clare permitted himself a small smile and a tiny warm glow of satisfaction.

He turned in a slow circle, taking in the view of the workroom, and was struck by the shocking idea that he had been wasting time. Waiting for Miss Bannon to descend from her tower, so to speak, and pass commerce with his mere mortal self again.

Though how mere a mortal I am remains to be seen.

“Well now,” he murmured, staring at the racks of beakers and alembics, each one shining-clean. “I say, Lud–ah, Philip, I have been imposing on Miss Bannon’s hospitality rather much lately.”

The lad made a short sound, whether of approbation or complaint Clare could not tell.

Clare forged onward. “You are rather an odd sort, but you are quick and know when to stay silent. I think you may do very well as an assistant.”

Philip’s nose wrinkled slightly. “A fine compliment, sir.”

“And heartily meant. Fetch what you need, we may not return.”

“She won’t like that, sir.”

“Nonsense. She has every faith in your capability, or she would not have engaged you to follow me about.” He felt, he realised, extremely lucid, and the prospect of another tangle to test his faculties against was comforting in the extreme.

He also felt quite calm. Having a course of action to pursue helped to no end.

Philip had no witticism to answer with, so Clare set forth at a little faster than a walk but still short of a run, to fetch his hat and pack a few necessaries.

Perhaps Miss Bannon did worry for his well-being; perhaps this was an affair sorcery alone could untangle. Perhaps she was correct, and perhaps it was dangerous for Clare to accompany the detective inspector into the murderous knots that sprang up thick and rank as weeds wherever illogical sorcery was found.

Yes, Clare admitted to himself as he hopped up the stairs and turned for his rooms. She had quite a legitimate concern, had the lady in question.

Nevertheless, my dear Emma, I cannot wait to prove you wrong.

“I say, I wasn’t sure you’d come,” Aberline said grimly, rising to shake Clare’s hand. His desk was littered with piles of paper, his inkstand had seen heavy use of late, and the shelves in his office were disarranged somewhat. The place was full of dust occasioning from that rearranging, and there was a betraying tickle in Clare’s nose.

He suppressed the incipient sneeze and cleared his throat instead. “Whyever not? I am quite happy to be of service. This shall keep my faculties tolerably exercised, I should think. Besides, we cannot have murderers running loose. It is an affront to good order.”

“Indeed.” The inspector’s hand trembled slightly, and there were still dark circles under his eyes. “Many of the public agree. In fact, we are inundated with well-meaning letters, telegrams, notes, scribbles, and opinions. They are certain someone they know has acted suspiciously, or they tell us how we may go about doing our duty and catching the damned man. He seems to have rather caught the public interest.”

“Gruesomely so. The broadsheets are full of Leather Apron this and Murder that.” The less responsible are blaming the Yudics in all but name. Clare cast about for a place to perch, but there was none. The chair he had settled in last time overflowed with paper–no doubt there was a rich trove of deduction to unearth there. “Do tell me how I may help, sir.”

“I would set you to weeding through these, but I rather think it a waste of time and of your magnificent talents. If you can believe it, these are the missives that have been judged to have some merit in other quarters, and are thus passed to me.”

But there must be hundreds! “Good heavens. Surely there is a better use of your own resources than this.”

“I rather think so.” Aberline tugged on his gloves, of a little higher quality than a mere inspector’s, but by no means reprehensibly Æsthete.

Clare noted his walking-stick–Malacca, with a curious brass head that looked rather too heavy–and the overcoat hanging behind the inspector’s desk, on a wrought-iron contraption. “I deduce we are going walking.”

“Rather healthful, at our age.” Aberline shrugged into the overcoat with quick movements.

A flash of amusement passed through Clare, a swift pang, over quickly. He did his best to ignore it. “I further deduce our destination is an unsavoury part of Londinium.”

“Will he take cold, our young lad?” The inspector scooped up his walking-stick and thrust his chin at Philip Pico, who held a mutinous peace.

The youth merely let his lip curl slightly, and Clare thought the russet touches to his hair were perhaps natural. Even his eyebrows held a tinge of burning.

“I doubt it. He has overcome his reluctance to accompany me on such salubrious excursions.” There are some advantages to logic, indeed.

“Very well. He may even be useful.” The detective inspector cast a final glance over the room, and an extraordinary flash of Feeling surfaced on his features.

Observe, analyse. Clare’s faculties seized on the unguarded expression. Longing, disgust, a heavy recognition of futility.

Detective Inspector Aberline was a man who loathed his employment, and yet he would continue in it for as long as possible, devoting his energies faithfully and completely, with little regard for his health or happiness.

Perhaps his dislike of Miss Bannon sprang from the fact that they were, on that level, very much the same. There was no antipathy like that of the familiar. “Mr Pico is singularly useful, sir. I deduce we are bound for Whitchapel?”

Aberline’s broad, sudden smile was a marvel of cheerfulness, showing another flash of the youth he must have been. “Incorrect, sir!” He drew himself up, settled his bowler, tested the heft of his walking-stick, and strode lively for the door. “We are bound for Limhoss, and for an explanation.”