The Ripper Affair

Chapter Thirty-Five Quite Confident Indeed

Falling into bed, Clare decided, had done him a world of good. His Baker Street flat was indeed dusty, and full of the ghost of a Neapolitan assassin, but he had not cared. His narrow bed smelled rather vile, but he burrowed into its familiarity and was lost to darkness. Pico could have breakfast; Clare wished surcease.

He woke at early teatime when the lad nudged him, and made his toilet with the focused inattention bred of habit and familiarity. Pico exhibited the instincts of a good valet, fussing over Clare’s clothing in a manner that was almost familiar. He also charmed the redoubtable Mrs Ginn, sweetening the landlady much more than Valentinelli had ever cared to. The tea tray was not up to Miss Bannon’s standards, but Clare welcomed it nonetheless, and Pico confined himself to remarking upon the weather and asking Clare’s opinion of this or that waistcoat.

It was not until their arrival at Miss Bannon’s gate that Pico betrayed a certain nervousness, rubbing at his freshly shaven cheek. “She might not be happy.”

“That is exceedingly likely,” Clare allowed, straightening his cuffs. They were a trifle late–a hansom, he thought irritably, was never about when one needed it. “She does prefer punctuality.”

“Well, at least you’re alive, right? And in one piece. My heart fair gave out when you vanished in the riot, sir. Never been so glad to find someone in my life.” Pico blinked sleepily, his sharp foxface pale as milk.

“No fear on that account,” Clare murmured. The thought no longer sent a sharp pang through him. Quiet and familiar, Brooke Street nonetheless had the appearance of a foreign country. Perhaps he was simply seeing it with fresh eyes.

The cadaverous Finch took Clare’s hat, and he was imperturbable as usual. “The drawing room, sir.”

“Thank you.” There was an odd sensation just under his breastbone. “Has, ahem, the inspector arrived?” And were you prepared to face him?

“Yes, sir.” Finch’s manner betrayed no discomfiture.

“He, erm… he did not upset you, Finch?” Enquiring in this manner was so bloody awkward. Finch gave him a rather curious look, and Pico coughed.

“No, sir.” And that, apparently, was that. Finch motioned for Pico to follow him, and the lad went without question or qualm.

Miss Bannon had taken steps to reassure him, apparently. It was entirely like her.

The drawing room was full of clear, serene light, its mirrors dancing and the fancy of waterlilies and birch stems never more marked. There was even a subtle freshness in the air, but perhaps that was Miss Bannon’s perfume–for the lady in question had settled herself on the blue velvet settee, and Inspector Aberline, his hands clasped behind his back, stood gazing into the fireplace, where burning coal had developed a thick white cover.

Miss Bannon’s dark eyes had crescents of bruise-darkness underneath them, yet her posture was as straight as ever. She was markedly pale, though, and her mien was of careful thoughtfulness. Only her hands, lying prettily in her lap and bedecked with four plain silver rings on the left and a large yellow tourmaline on her right middle finger, betrayed any tension.

Inspector Aberline’s colour was high, and his coat and shoes had been given a thorough brushing. He had obviously repaired to his home at some point, much as Clare had.

He was long to remember this moment: the peculiar brightness of the light, Miss Bannon’s exhausted face, and Aberline’s clenched jaw.

Clare braced himself, and shut the door.

Dinner was superb, of course, but Miss Bannon ate very little. Nor did she take anything but water. “It used its whip upon you?”

“Yes.” Clare set his implements down properly, indicated the length of the slash along his forearm. “It seemed quite put out at being disturbed.”

“What on earth is it?” Aberline wondered aloud. “What method was used in its construction?”

“I believe it may be similar to a Charington’s Familiar.” Miss Bannon took a mannerly sip of water from a restrained crystal goblet. The gryphon-carved table legs were not restless, as they sometimes were when her mood was unsettled. “At first the Prime would have to kill on his own account–Tebrem, for example, he chose to cut in a relatively sheltered location. Afterward the spirit could commit its own foul acts–but only at night, I should think. There is some physical focus for this spirit, some piece of it that held it to the fleshly world while sorcerous force was poured into it, and until it may walk in daylight that focus is vulnerable. Additionally, each location has become a taproot driven deeply into Londinium to gather force from the city’s essence, if you will… I do wonder, why a coachman?”

“It seems rather… plebeian… for a ruling spirit,” Aberline observed.

“The spirit of our time is rather plebeian.” Clare savoured a bite of roast; the sauce held a flavour he had not yet defined. “One only has to take the train to ascertain as much, or a turn about Picksdowne.”

“Some hold that Britannia was once the local spirit of Colchestre, a humble minder of pottery.” Miss Bannon regarded her plate with a serious, thoughtful expression. “Books which speak of such a possibility are difficult to procure, for obvious reasons.”

“That’s all well and good.” Aberline had a remarkably hearty appetite, for a man sitting at table with a woman he regarded as a viper. “How do we stop this bas—ah, this mad sorcerer?”

Miss Bannon glanced at the dining-room door. Not for Mikal, certainly, for he did not attend dinner. Nor for Valentinelli. Pico would dine with the servants tonight; Miss Bannon had given orders.

Clare found his busy faculties turning these few facts about and around, seeking to make them fit together. There was a missing piece.

“There is… well, there is fair news, and foul.” Miss Bannon ceased to even pretend to consume her dinner, pushing her plate back slightly with a fingertip. The tourmaline ring flashed. “Much was decided with the first murder. Every death since then has narrowed the possibilities, so to speak. Such is the way of such Works of sorcery. I believe this mad Prime is very close to achieving his purpose.”

“That’s foul enough news.” Aberline took another mouthful of roast, and Clare, troubled, set his fork and knife down.

Miss Bannon’s small smile held no amusement. “That was actually the fair news, Inspector. He requires a very specific victim for the culmination of his last series of murders, and I believe he has settled on one.”

“Then how do we find her? Whitchapel teems with drabs.”

“Finding her is my task,” Miss Bannon returned, equably enough. “Do enjoy your dinner now, Inspector. Afterwards I shall inform you of your part in the plan.”

Aberline’s gaze darted to Clare, who began to have a very odd sensation in his middle. The inspector looked ready to object, and visibly thought better of it. “You are confident in your ability to find, out of all the unfortunates in Whitchapel, the one our Leather Apron has settled on?”

“Quite confident.” Miss Bannon’s faint smile bore a remarkable resemblance to a grimace of pain. She took another sip of water. “Quite confident indeed. I would explain, but sometimes a Work must not be spoken of.” She pushed her chair back, and both men leapt to their feet as she rose. “My apologies, sirs. My digestion is somewhat disarranged. Please, enjoy the remainder of dinner, I implore you. The smoking room is ready for you afterwards.”

Her black skirts rustled as she swept past Clare, and he discovered that she was not, as he had thought earlier, wearing perfume.

How peculiar. He settled once more into his chair, and Aberline applied himself to the roast in earnest. Finch was not serving tonight; Horace and Gilburn would bring the next course in due time. It was, Clare reflected, almost as if the house were his, and this a quiet dinner with a colleague or a fascinating resource.

“Have I been pleasant enough?” Aberline did not wait for a reply. “What do you make of that?”

“I am quite puzzled, I confess.” It is not like Miss Bannon to have a troubled digestion. Where is Mikal?

“No need to let it ruin one’s appetite. She dines well, if early.”

Clare almost replied, but another thought struck him.

It will be growing dark, and Tideturn is soon.

His faculties woke further, seeking to weave together disparate bits of information and deduction. Some critical piece was missing, and had he not been so… uneven… lately, he might already have it. Feeling did its best to blur Logic and Reason, and he had indulged himself too far in its whirling.

Did it matter, what irrational act Miss Bannon had committed upon him? It did not, and with the clarity of Logic he could even see why she had not told him. She had been… right, it seemed.

The vegetables arrived, and the sorbet. Dessert, and the savouries were savoured. Clare grew quieter and quieter, and Aberline saw no reason to draw him out. It might have been quite a companionable meal, had Miss Bannon been there–and the inspector absent.

It was not until he had entered the smoking room afterwards, its familiarity somehow smaller and more confining, that Clare realised he had been quite a buffoon, and Miss Bannon…

… was gone.

Oh, bloody hell.