The Ripper Affair (Bannon and Clare)

  From The Hind End

  Whitehell Street had become a rather brooding organism, having been taken over by the Metropoleans. Robertson Peal’s vision of a castle of Order and Detection had spread like a mushroom colony, and his knights were now “Bobbies”, an affectionate diminutive of the man who made Bow Street famous. The Yard now consisted of several buildings, with the official entrance–through what used to be a back street–granting the entire sprawl its name. It was perhaps a measure of Londinium’s intransigence that it was named for the back street instead of Whitehell; Justice, as it were, always approached its prey from the hind end.

  Or was often approached from such by those wishing to enact it.

  The detective inspector’s office, shared with another inspector, was a curious place. He was of the few Yard occupants fortunate enough to have a window, but all that could be seen was shifting yellow fog and the base of a street lamp, for the room was half underground. Feet passed by, their owners hurrying or ambling as they pleased, or as they felt the eyes of the Yard upon them. There were windows above as well, blank eyes that often as not held flickering gaslight on dim evenings as the knights of bootleather and order kept the great beast of Law fed with paper and deduction.

  In this cave, the shelves were crammed with redrope files, as a solicitor’s office might be, but there were also… other things. A scrap of calico, bloodstained from the look of it; a cracked globe of crystal with a tiny point of light in its depths; a curved knife in a tooled leather sheath–its provenance was uncertain, and Clare longed to study it further, but other items cried for his attention as well. A red velvet pillow held a heavy, tarnished brass ring; next to it a small brass dish held a parson’s collar buttons; and they were kept companion by a small silver candle-snuffer. There was a wealth of inference to be drawn.

  “You have a sentimental nature, sir.” Clare turned from the shelves to find the inspector standing behind his desk, his mouth slightly ajar as if thunderstruck. He relished the expression. “Mementos from your cases, I take it.”

  However, the inspector’s next words put matters in a different light entirely. “Clare,” the man replied, in a wondering tone. “Archibald Clare. I knew the name was familiar. If you look to the right and down, sir, you shall find your monograph.”

  “Is that so?” He glanced down, and there was a familiar blue-marbled cover. “Ah. Well.” It looked well thumbed, too, and he felt the pinch of Pride. Another instance of Feeling seeking to lead him astray. “I am… yes, quite touched. Who would have thought?”

  “I have actually read it.” Aberline now sounded a trifle defensive. “I perform the recommended Exercizes at dawn and dusk, unless I am in dire emergency. They have been of inestimable value, sir. Had I known it was you, I would not have treated you so coolly. Miss Bannon’s acquaintances, while… effective… are also usually somewhat troublesome.”

  “I have discovered as much,” Clare allowed. Myself among them. He glanced at Philip Pico, who leaned against the wall near the door–just where Valentinelli might have placed himself, though without such an insouciant sneer. “She is a singular lady, Miss Bannon. I am glad you have found my poor scribblings of some use. This is, however, not why you brought me here. I gather that even Miss Bannon’s threats of the Crown’s displeasure would not induce you to bring a stranger into this hallowed sanctum–because you do sleep often at that desk, sir, there is a mark just where your forehead or cheek would rest upon the blotter–without some other pressing reason to do so?”

  “Just as I imagined you.” Aberline’s face lit with a grin that showed the youth he had been perhaps a good ten years ago. Sharp as a blade, Clare fancied, and with a hot, easily touched pride kept under a mask of diffidence. “I say, sir, you are remarkable.”

  “I am merely a mentath.” Clare straightened his cuffs. A sudden thought drew him up short. “You were aware these murders were committed by the same hand long before now.”

  The man sank into his chair, indicating the other one with a wave. “Yes. Lestraid and I–he shares this office, but right now he’s chasing some damn fool in Devon–had an inkling of trouble to come when the Tebrem creature was found. There are… I say, do sit. And you too, sir.”

  “Why?” Philip Pico wanted to know. “I’m just a sodding nursery maid.”

  “A nursery maid wouldn’t have half your long face, and wouldn’t be eyeing the exits, and wouldn’t be sweating at the thought of the Yard.” Aberline cast a small, satisfied glance Clare’s way, and the mentath found himself agreeably surprised by the inspector’s capability at deduction. “You’re of St Georgeth’s, or Jermyn Street, but you’re too old for the play there. And that blasted sorceress obviously entrusted this gentleman–who she seems rather attached to, since I’ve never seen her take such an interest in keeping someone’s skin whole–to you, so you must be at least halfway dangerous.” Aberline nodded, smartly. “You’ve naught to fear from me, little lad. I know better than to set foot where my lady chooses to engage a service.”

  There it was again: the tantalising hint of a History between Miss Bannon and this man.

  It was merely a distraction at this juncture; Clare returned his attention to the matter at hand with an almost physical effort. “As soon as Tebrem was found, you say?”

  “Do come and sit down, old chap.” Aberline’s mouth had compressed itself into a tight line again. He had an inkstain on his right middle finger, Clare noticed, and a thin line of Whitchapel grime had worked its way under his wedding ring.

  He was suddenly certain the man had been up very late last night.

  Quite possibly, he had not been to bed at all. The deduction caused a sinking feeling in Clare’s stomach, which he told sternly to cease being idiotic. His normally excellent digestion choosing this particular time to misbehave was a most unwelcome development.

  Clare lowered himself into the appointed chair, a monstrous leather thing with sprung stuffing crouching behind a hunched ottoman which bore the marks of another’s boots–perhaps the missing inspector, chasing fools in Devon?

  He arranged himself, steepling his fingers before his face, and nodded fractionally. “Proceed, sir.”

  “Are you familiar with lustmorden?”

  Clare frowned. What a curious portmanteau of a word. German? He thought of his friend Sigmund, who would no doubt be brightly interested in this, as he was in anything that involved Miss Bannon. Dear old Sig was growing visibly older; Clare had not availed himself of the man’s company in months. Now, Clare had the uncomfortable sensation of wondering precisely why. Of course, Sig was still tinkering with that bloody mechanical spider of his. “I am uncertain. Do explain.”

  “There are several cases. The Beast of Dusseldorf, for example, or the Florentine Monster. A man so maddened by uncontrolled—” Aberline shifted uncomfortably. His cheeks pinkened slightly. “Or uncontrollable desire, committing murders, each with a distinguishing mark springing from the obsession.”

  Clare’s eyelids dropped to half-mast. “I see. A remarkable theory. Could it not be that some criminals simply desire to murder? That it is in their nature?”

  “Of course. But these monsters, when caught–I say, Mr Clare, I am not distressing you by speaking so?”

  If only you knew. “By no means.”

  “And it will not distress you if I have… unorthodox methods of detecting?”

  “My own are rather strange, sir.” Clare blinked. “Do go on.”

  “Very well.” Yet Aberline still seemed uncomfortable. “The obsession dictates the murder. I shall now tell you what I have ascertained, Mr Clare. The murderer has practised his deadly art. He will be extremely difficult to catch. He is possessed of a coach or some other conveyance, and he has some aim in mind.” He drew a deep breath. “And he is nowhere near finished.”

  Clare nodded, slowly. “I see. You are certain he has a conveyance? A personal chariot of some sort to travel from one nightmarish deed to the next?”

  “I am.”
/>
  “How are you so certain?”

  “I…” Aberline coughed, looking even more uncomfortable. “I cannot say.”

  “Quite interesting.” Clare nodded again. “Tell me what you can say, then.”

  “The very idea of lustmorden is so repulsive, it is difficult to even convince our superiors of its existence. To them, Murder is a product of Insanity and Criminal Character alone, and no room is granted for… for lack of a better word, no room is granted for sheer evil.” Aberline coughed slightly. “I am of the opinion that those who rise in the world’s estimation do not often make the best detective inspectors, but they do make excellent commissioners and mayors and lord justices.” A cloud passed over his features, but he waved a hand, dismissing it.

  This had all the character of a speech polished over long, sleepless nights, and Clare settled himself to the peculiar state of absorbed attention he often practised when Miss Bannon could be induced to speak at length on a subject she found interesting.

  It was the interest–or the outright obsession–of an intelligent subject that often led to the most fruitful lines of enquiry and deduction, even if the subject was blind to them as a consequence of said obsession.

  Oh, so Miss Bannon is a subject now? She is not present; do not think upon her. He brought his attention back to the matter at hand, and nodded, since Aberline had given him an enquiring glance.

  “Proceed,” he said, and a prickle of… irritation?… furrowed his brow.

  If it had been Miss Bannon speaking, she would not have needed the glance to ascertain his attention.

  “You have rather a listening air, sir, and it is most welcome. Do tell me if I—”

  Let us move on, and quickly, too. “These murders–lustmorden is a very evocative name indeed–are of a variety and species your superiors, if we can call them that, are not equipped to effectively halt. By virtue of your almost daily experience of the effects and settings of Vice and Crime, you have acquired a body of knowledge which grants you certain… feelings, if you will, for the causes and prevention of both. Which leads you to conflict within the Yard, for though you have many other fine qualities, you do not have the necessary oil to smooth bureaucratic waters.”

  The silence greeting his observation might have been uncomfortable if Aberline had not been smiling broadly.

  “Quite so,” he finally said. “Quite so. Lestraid is much better at it, and without him, I confess, I am somewhat at the mercy of my own temperament. It does not help that my methods are… In some cases, I have been accused of being little better than a criminal myself.”

  Ah. Now there is a frank admission. The mementos on the shelves were either tokens of cases where Aberline had known the criminal and mucked himself in order to bring him or her to justice… or tokens of victims he had been unable to avenge, even by behaving in a not-so-noble fashion.

  Or both. So little separated a bootleather knight from a criminal.

  You have grown philosophical, Clare.

  He turned to another avenue of thought. The man’s mien was so sober and exacting, it was difficult to conceive of him as one willing to turn the law so that the spirit instead of the letter was fulfilled.

  Which meant Clare must look more closely at him. Appearances deceived, and such a valuable clew into a man’s character was not to be taken lightly. Especially when Clare himself was… was he?

  Yes. He was distracted. It boded rather ill.

  Aberline shrugged. “The fact that I have some small ætheric talent–not enough to charm,” he added hurriedly, “no, not enough to be apprenticed, to be sure! And yet I am viewed with a certain trepidation by every hemisphere of the Yard.”

  “Sorcerous or not,” Clare clarified, “bootleather or bonnet.”

  “Indeed.” Aberline looked gratified to be so comprehended. He settled himself more deeply in his chair, and his gaze focused on the shelves of mementoes and files, leatherbound books and bundles of paper. “Yet I digress. Lustmorden all share certain characteristics, which Lestraid and I have isolated by poring through bloodcurdling accounts of deeds unfit for print. These murders share such characteristics—”

  “Which include?” Clare prodded.

  “Savagery, for one. But that is not enough. A certain method–the progression is quite clear. The murderer begins with experimentation, though one may see the, ahem, you could call it the marks of his obsession—”

  “His?”

  “Oh, a woman may drink, and a woman may poison, and there may even be the rare woman like Miss Bannon, who is more a viper in frail flesh than a proper female. But a woman does not commit lustmorden. It is simply unthinkable.”

  Clare’s silence was taken for agreement, and Aberline continued. He had quite warmed to his theme.

  “For one thing, the violence of the attacks is anathema to a woman. For another, the driving force is… well, the name says it quite clearly. The driving force is the prerogative of the male.”

  “I see,” Clare murmured.

  “The marks of the obsession are very particular, and unique to each criminal. Rather as the Anthropometric school of thought holds that the ridges on each man’s hands are unique–are you familiar with Faulds, and Bertillon, dactyloscopy? Very good. Lustmorden is merely an outgrowth of the principle that a criminal’s chosen vice is an expression of their personality… the theory is complex,” Aberline acknowledged, and pushed himself to his feet. He paced to the window, looking up at the gleam of strengthening daylight piercing layers of fog and falling on his face, shadowing the traces of sleeplessness and care. Driving them deeper.

  How frail flesh is. Yet Clare’s own, now… not so at all. He found the logical consequence to Aberline’s pause. “The initial attack, the one that came to such attention recently, was not the first? Is that what you mean?”

  “There are plenty that bear the same marks; the avocation of drink and prostitution is a hazardous one. But the site of the Tebrem murder… there were troubling… would you believe me, sir, if I said I possessed what a colonist might call ‘an intuition’? A… feeling, one sharpened by my… experiences.”

  “I would believe you.” Clare sought for the right tone. “You are saying that there may have been others, but the Tebrem murder was successful enough to propel the murderer forward? It stoked the fire of his obsession past the critical point, and we are now—”

  “—facing what may become an explosion. Especially since the Eastron End bears a distressing resemblance to a powder-keg recently. The influx of Yudics, the Eirean troubles, the Red, sheer laziness and ill character finding its level, so to speak, and the dreadfuls and broadsheets irresponsibly striking sparks against a very short fuse.” He turned on his heel, striding for the shelf, and reached for a redrope folder.

  Holding it, he looked even more solicitor-like, and Clare had to quash a moment of amusement. The situation most certainly did not call for a smile, and his expression might be misinterpreted.

  Had he not spent so long watching Miss Bannon smooth over misinterpretations, he might have unwittingly made the situation precarious.

  Aberline took no notice of his expression either way. “And the Crown has now seen fit to muddy the waters by bringing pressure to bear on the Yard. I confess I am rather disheartened by the fact, since said pressure will inevitably make it more difficult to pursue a single murderer through the worst sinks of Londinium. Disturbed silt does not permit clarity in a pond, so to speak.”

  “Ah.” Clare cogitated upon this set of statements for a few moments. “I say, Detective Inspector, you very much seem to view these deaths as a personal affront.”

  The man had the grace to cough slightly, and redden a bit. “Some cases, Mr Clare, become so.”

  “Indeed they do.” Clare settled himself more firmly in the chair. “I believe the file you hold contains the information you deem particularly worthwhile, and also particularly damaging to public order. I further believe you have every reason to be as cautious as you are. This has a
ll the marks of an affair that could end very badly. And Mr Pico, do come and have a seat. I believe you may be of some use to us.”

  “Glad to become so, squire,” was the cheeky reply, and Clare found, much to his surprise, that he was almost agreeably irritated with the lad.

  Perhaps Miss Bannon had not been so wrong to engage him.

  No doubt there was a sorcerous component to this case, but vanquishing it with pure logic–and the resources of the Yard, no matter how muddied the waters had become–might indeed be possible.

  The question of why such a prospect could warm him so agreeably was one he decided to set aside for the nonce.

  “These are murders Lestraid and I believe fit the pattern.” The redrope was distressingly thick, and the small table dragged to suit Clare’s perusal of it was rather overwhelmed by its bulk. “Tea, while you read?”

  “Quite welcome, thank you.” Clare’s brow furrowed as he opened the file, and his faculties woke even further.

  He settled himself for a long afternoon’s work.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Thin Meg

  Kendall, two streets over, turned out to be somewhat misleading. Perhaps the man hadn’t meant to be deceptive, but the fog was thickening and Emma’s thoughts were of a similarly impenetrable nature. She rather wished Clare was about, for he had the most wonderful way of clarifying matters. At least, he did when those matters did not involve his own tender sensibilities.

  In any case, it was the rank narrow reeking of Blightallen, the Scab thick and resilient underfoot–sunlight didn’t reach past the sloping overhead tenements, leaning together to confer on business best kept low-voiced–that held their quarry. Or, more precisely, his stinking domicile, which was one low-ceilinged room, with a door that had been shivered to pieces.

  There had been more than one murder in Whitchapel last night. The closet was thick with an ætheric tangle of violence. A small, blood-soaked bed, a strongbox that had been rifled–by murderer or by neighbours was an open question–and torn, faded wallpaper; one sad, frameless painting of a woman with dark eyes and a decided downturn to her mouth, dressed in the fashion of the Mad Georgeth’s early reign, powdered curls and a plaid beauty-mark high on her left cheek. The painting was varnished to the wall at least twice, which solved one mystery, while a round of questioning the foul-haired, slattern of a landlady solved another.