Free The Ripper Affair (Bannon and Clare) by Lilith Saintcrow Page A

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.”

Chapter Fourteen

For Want Of A Pause
    T he Georgeyard Building had been new a decade ago, and clung to shabby respectability by teeth and toenails. Of course, it was off Whitchapel High Street, so the question of its respectability was an exceeding open one.
    The day had brightened enough that the Scab’s vile green, velvety organic ooze had retreated under muffled sunlight’s lash, leaving an evil oily steam instead of its usual thick rancid coating over the cobbles.
    Not to worry, though. It will return with darkness.
So would Emma, if she gained nothing with this visit. For now, though, she followed Clare, their treads echoing in the dark.
    She was glad of the stairwell’s dimness; her eyes were burning from even the cloudy sunshine outside.
    Or from something else.
    Nothing you need take account of, Emma. Do what duty demands here, and retreat as soon as you may.
    Why had she agreed to this? Merely because Clare had immediately assumed she would, or because she had felt some