The Ripper Affair (Bannon and Clare) Read online

  The dark Clare would not experience for a long, long while. How long? Was there any way to tell? Questions! Questions that required answers.

  He sank his sweating fists into the velvet counterpane. Bent over until his forehead touched the bag’s use-blackened handles, and attempted to impose some order on his scattered thoughts.

  It came slowly. The rest of him was wet with sweat by the time he braced his arms and straightened, his knees creaking.

  “I should apologise.” It was not quite the thing for a mentath to speak to himself. It was rather a sign of uncertain faculties, wasn’t it? “I treated her most dreadfully. Yes.”

  He found himself at his chamber door, clutching the bag with a sopping hand. A great undifferentiated mass of Feeling rose again, swamping him, and he dropped the Gladstone with a solid, meaty thump that unseated his usually excellent digestion.

  He could not remember breakfast, but he bolted for the water closet and evacuated it in a most decided fashion, pausing to suck in deep breaths between the heaves and wincing at the taste of his own bile.

  Chapter Ten

  And Nothing Came Of It

  Emma sighed and indicated the settee, faintly surprised when Britannia did not take offence. The ruling spirit settled her vessel carefully, and for a long moment her face became Victrix’s as she arranged her voluminous skirts. Drawn despite the doughiness, careworn as well, Emma could not find the young queen she had known in the matron’s features.

  Did it disturb Victrix, to find her former servant so unchanged?

  If it did, she did not show it, merely pursed her lips with distaste. When she spoke, there was only a faint shadow of Britannia under her words, a chill wind mouthing the syllables. “There have been… events. In the Eastron End of Londinium. Whitchapel.”

  “Events.” The blood crusted on Emma’s left glove was irritating. “In Whitchapel.” The thought of that filthy sinkhole, the Scab covering its floors and cobbles with thick green caustic sludge, was unpleasant, to say the least.

  “We felt these events, Lady Sellwyth. In Our very core.” One plump hand waved, diamonds flashing. “And now there are… disturbing signs. A weakness, such as We have not felt since…”

  Since when? But the practice of holding her tongue in the presence of royalty had always stood Emma in marvellous good stead, and she found it easy to adhere to at the moment. And Lady Sellwyth, as if Victrix sought to remind her of the fanged gift of a title set as a seal upon Emma’s faithful service, and the Sellwyth ancestral lands held in Emma’s fist, guarding its secret.

  Victrix’s mouth barely opened far enough to let the words loose. “Since those ingrates sought to disturb the taproot of Our power.”

  Which ingrates? History is full to the brim of those who would supplant a vessel. Perhaps it was Cramwelle’s reign she referred to–the shock of Charles the First’s execution must have been a nasty one. Or perhaps she meant Mad Georgeth’s reign, though Britannia had held fast to even that ailing container.

  She could even have meant the affair with the dragon, given her mention of Sellwyth.

  Interesting as that avenue of questioning might prove, the issue of what the taproot of a ruling spirit’s power consisted of was even more intriguing.

  A heavy sigh, and Britannia retreated from Victrix’s features. Her shoulders rounded, a flicker of expression crossed her broad face—what was it?

  Almost haunted, Emma decided. “Your Majesty.” She aimed for a soft, conciliatory tone, and perhaps did not succeed. Still, the effort had been made. “This seems to trouble you greatly.”

  “Can you imagine, sorceress, what it would be to lose your powers?”

  I do not have to imagine. “Yes.” Memory rose–dripping water, smell of stone, the manacles clanking and her own despairing noises as she struggled fruitlessly–and Mikal’s steady breathing as he throttled and eviscerated the Prime who had trapped her and sought to tear her ætheric talent out by the roots. His own Prime, the one he had sworn to serve… a vow broken for what?

  He hurt you, was all Mikal would say of the matter. She had never sorely pressed him on that point, for a variety of reasons. Clare’s accusations rose before her again, unwelcome guests indeed, in the crowded room her brain had momentarily become.

  “Yes,” she repeated. “I can imagine it very well.”

  “Then you know how difficult it may be to speak of.” Then, a crowning absurdity. “We ask your patience.”

  There was a tap at the door, and Mikal ghosted in. He held a silver tray–the rum, and a small fluted bottle of vitae. Just the sight of the glowing-purple glass was enough to unseat Emma’s stomach a little.

  His irises flared yellow in the dim light, and, for the first time in a long while, she found herself slightly worried about her Shield.

  Victrix studied him closely; her gaze had lost none of its human acuity. “We remember your face. You were with Us during the affair with the metal soldiers.”

  He glanced at Emma, who nodded slightly but perceptibly. Which freed him to answer–and also made a subtle point.

  “I was.” Two brief, dismissive words, and he set the tray down with a small click on the tiny, exquisite Chinois dresser, the three other decanters and crystal glasses already perched atop its gleaming mellowness.

  “So long ago.” Victrix sighed. “Emma.”

  She found her shoulders tight as canvas sail under a full gale. Took care to speak softly. “Your Majesty.”

  “We ask you to investigate. These… events have caused disturbance and threaten to rob Britannia of strength. What may We offer you for your service?”

  “I am not in trade, Your Majesty.” Stiffly. You could offer an apology, but I think it unlikely indeed.

  “Did We treat so ill with you? You are still of the Isle, witchling.”

  “Perhaps I dislike travel, Your Majesty.” And consequently have not left.

  “Impertinent hussy. Do you think I do not know your origins? Your pretence at Quality is merely that.”

  And your pretence at graciousness, Victrix? This house is clearly in mourning. As you still are, mourning that petty Saxe-Koburg you married.

  She held her tongue, and accepted a tumbler with an inch of rum from Mikal. One of his eyebrows lifted fractionally. The meaning was plain–whatever else lay between them in private, he was her Shield, and no onlooker would be allowed a glimpse of any tension. A burst of relief filled her chest so strongly she almost rocked back upon her heels.

  Such a betraying movement could not be allowed. So she composed her features, tucked aside her veil with her free hand, and tossed the rum far, far back without waiting for Victrix to be served a thimbleful of vitae by a ghost-silent Mikal.

  “And who are you, to treat with Us so?” Victrix’s lip actually curled. “We are your sovereign.”

  You were my sovereign, and I would have done much more for you, had you not used me as you did. The comforting, soothing heat of a drink most ladies would not dare bolstered her. I did not mind being a glove for your hand, my Queen, but a Prime does not brook being insulted.

  Emma chose the next few words carefully. An outright refusal would not do. “There must be other Primes in your service.”

  “None with your… efficiency.” Her face twisted as if the admission hurt.

  I hope it does. “Quite a compliment.” Now will you tell me of the other Prime, the one dogging my steps after the plague was released? The one leaving me posies and presents?

  Even now, there were secrets to keep.

  “Sorceress.” Britannia’s voice filled Victrix’s mouth, the sibilants long and cold. “You try Our patience.”

  “What would you have of me, spirit?” Deliberately hard, each word pronounced with the crispest of accents. Her Discipline sent a heatless pang through her. Those of the Endor were held in some caution, even among the Black. Even a Prime could not hope to strike down a ruling spirit… but she could certainly inconvenience one.

  And do so mightily. I
f only by inaction.

  “Someone in Whitchapel has committed murder.” Victrix, now, using her own voice.

  “That is hardly an event,” Emma observed.

  Mikal had gone very still, standing by the Chinois dresser in a Shield’s habitual attitude, hands clasped loosely and the readiness clearly visible on him.

  Carrying weapons in the queen’s presence.

  Victrix had come inside, alone, though the street was watched.

  The realisation was a slap of cold water, stinging Emma into functioning properly. She continued, with great deliberation. “Starvation, Crime and Vice walk the Eastron End every night.” Every morning, too. “Someone is always violently shuffling off a mortal coil there, with assistance and without.”

  “We are aware of such things.”

  Emma let silence cover that remarkable statement. Her gaze met Mikal’s. It would be so easy to cross the room, open the door and step into the hall, consigning this whole conversation to the realms of Such a thing occurred, and nothing came of it.

  She weighed the idea and found much to recommend it.

  When Victrix finally spoke again, her tone was no more than a weary mortal woman’s–middle-aged, a desert of hopes lost and the knowledge of grief. “We–I–witnessed a brace of murders. It is unspeakable. They have been savaged, Emma. We felt it. It was done with intent, and it tapped the source of Our power in some fashion. The weakness is… horrid. We do not know how or why. You must discover this, and quickly.”

  For a moment, Emma simply stared. Who knew what she might have said had the door not been thrown open and Clare staggered through, his hair wildly disarranged and his jacket askew?

  “Emma, I must apolo–Dear God in Heaven, Your Majesty, what are you doing here?”

  Chapter Eleven

  Complete His Cowardice

  “Dear heavens,” Clare repeated, vainly trying to smooth his wild, greying hair down. His blue eyes were blood-shot–he knew as much–and he was in no fit state to be before royalty. “I had no–mum, I mean, Your Majesty—”

  “Sit down.” Miss Bannon was at his elbow. She all but dragged him across the drawing room and pushed him firmly into his wonted chair, a walnut affair with high curved arms he tapped thoughtfully when a complex case had his undivided attention.

  “In front of the Queen?” He sounded genuinely horrified, even to himself.

  “I care little who is present, sir, sit down before you collapse.”

  She held an empty glass, and his sensitive nose discerned the odour of rum.

  Her nerves must be frayed, indeed.

  The remarkable fact that the Queen of the Isles was on the settee, without a guard or a minister anywhere in evidence, impinged upon his consciousness as well. It did not bode well at all, and thankfully gave him something new to busy his faculties with. “What dire news is it this time? The dynamitards, have they struck again?”

  “No, indeed.” Victrix essayed a pale smile. “It is quite a different danger, and I am begging our redoubtable sorceress’s aid with it.”

  “Begging? Nonsense. Miss Bannon is always more than happy to…” He blinked up at the lady in question, whose expression had shifted a few critical degrees. “I say, Emma, I am well enough. Do tell me, how may I be of service?”

  “You may sit where I place you, and cease being ridiculous. Mikal–yes, thank you.” She pressed a snifter of brandy into Clare’s willing hands, and the amber liquid suddenly seemed the best remedy in the world for his pounding head. “And–yes, very good.” She lifted her replenished glass of rum, and tapped it against his. “Come now, sir. Chin up, buckle down.”

  “And devil take the hindmost.” The familiar refrain, usually uttered when an affair they were pursuing had reached a breaking point of urgency and strain, comforted him. “I am sorry, Emma. I was dashed brutal about Valen—”

  “Let us not speak of that.” She eyed him for a long moment before straightening and glancing at Mikal. The Shield’s face was a bland, closed book; he did not even spare a moment’s worth of attention on Clare. “Now, stay there.” She turned, regarding the Queen with a level, dark-eyed gaze.

  It was odd to see such a childlike face so set and pale, the tiny diamonds on the crêpe band about her slim throat ringing with sorcerous light. The Queen, round and stiff in her mourning–the Widow of Windsor’s sorrow was rather a mark, Clare thought, of a certain calcification of character–wore more jewels, and certainly more costly, but they did not seem as expressive as Miss Bannon’s oddly matched adornments.

  He noted the tremor in Queen Victrix, the hectic colour of her cheeks and a fresh scratch on the outside edge of her laced boot. Gravel, meaning she had hurried into a carriage, most likely on a wide walkway. And there, behind the careful mask of a middle-aged matron’s face, was a flash of Feeling.

  He peered more closely, disregarding the rudeness of staring, to verify the extraordinary evidence of his senses. Yes, he was certain he could identify that flash.

  Fear.

  “I shall investigate these occurrences,” Miss Bannon said, formally. “If possible, I shall remove the danger to Britannia. I shall require every scrap of information there is to date; running after every murder in Whitchapel will only muddy the issue.”

  Whitchapel? Murder? Clare’s faculties seized upon the extraordinary words with quite unseemly relief.

  Victrix’s mouth compressed. “The first body was buried a-pottersfeld, the second is at Chanselmorgue. Her name was Nickol, I am told. More I cannot speak upon here.”

  How very odd. It galls her to request Miss Bannon’s services. Miss Bannon has not stepped forth on the Crown’s business for… quite a long while now, really. He had become accustomed to such a state of affairs, he supposed; Accustomed was a set of blinders where Logic and Reason were concerned. Just as befogging as Assumption and Comfort, and just as dangerous.

  The tastes of bile and brandy commingled were not pleasant, and his head still ached abominably. But the storm seemed to have passed for the moment, and Clare had a rich vista of distracting new deduction before him to embark upon.

  It would serve quite handily to push the distressing news, distressing events, firmly away.

  “Did you view the bodies yourself, Your Majesty?”

  Miss Bannon… was that a flicker of a smile hiding behind her steely expression? Had he not been so thoroughly acquainted with her features, he most certainly would have missed it.

  She was enjoying Victrix’s discomfiture, it seemed. Highly unusual. His estimation of the relationship between queen and the sorceress was incorrect. Perhaps said relationship had shifted by degrees, and he had missed it? For Miss Bannon did not speak upon the Queen much, if at all. Especially since the Red affair.

  How very intriguing.

  “We did, witchling.” Soft and cold. “And now you shall. Do not fail Us.” The Queen rose on a whisper of black silk and colourless anger, and Clare scrambled to his feet. Neither woman acknowledged him. Victrix stalked through the drawing-room door, which opened itself silently to accommodate her passage. Miss Bannon’s fingers did not twitch, but Clare was suddenly very sure that she had invisibly caused the door to swing itself wide. Mikal slid through after the Queen’s black-skirted, sailing bulk.

  The sound of the front door, shut with a thunderous snap, was a whip’s cracking over a clockhorse’s heaving back.

  Miss Bannon turned to the mentath, and she wore a most peculiar smile. Tight and unamused, her dark eyes wide and sparkling, colour rising in her soft cheeks.

  He downed the remainder of his brandy in one fell gulp, and grimaced. Medicinal it might have been, but it mixed afresh with the bile to remind him that he was not quite himself at the moment.

  That is ridiculous. Who else would you be?

  “Emma.” He wet his lips, swallowed harshly. “I am sorry. I should thank you for your pains, and apologise for my behaviour.”

  The sorceress shook her head, and her little fingers came up, loosened her
veil. “It is of little account, Clare. I expected you would be angry. But you are alive to feel such anger, which is what I wished.”

  “And Ludo?”

  “Do you think he would have thanked me for such a gift?” Another shake, settling the veil firmly. Her features blurred behind its weave, yet Clare’s quick eye discerned the tremor that passed through her. Only one: a ripple as subtle and dangerous as the shifting of rocks heralding an ice-freighted avalanche. “No. Death was Ludovico’s only love, Clare; he would not have been happy to have her snatched away.”

  Yours was the name he spoke when she came calling, Miss Bannon.

  There was no purpose in telling her so. If a sorceress could keep secrets, so could a mentath. Were he a lesser creature, he might feel a certain satisfaction in the act of doing so. As it was, well… “I deduce your torpor has been shaken, Miss Bannon.”

  “Certainly my leisure has been disrupted. Would you care to accompany me? I am to view a body, it seems, for our liege.”

  What was the sudden loosening in his chest? He decided not to enquire too closely. “Certainly. Do I have a moment to change my cloth? I am a trifle disarranged.”

  “Yes.” She paused. “I rather require another glove, I should think.”

  “I shall make haste, then.” And, to complete his cowardice, Clare escaped while he could.

  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.