The Ripper Affair полностью

Would you find it so, if you saw what it does to bodies? Or to rats, on particularly active nights? Emma turned back to Aberline. “I am gratified to find my coming was foretold,” she remarked, drily. “There is a body, sir.”

“Yes.” The inspector–because he was no doubt one of that august brotherhood now, being neither encased in a bobby’s blue cloth nor bearing the ubiquitous whistle–furrowed his brow mightily as he took in the mentath. “There is quite a crowd already—”

“Be a dear and clear them away, so we may examine the premises.” She put on her most winning smile again, and saw his flinch with a great deal of satisfaction. “My companion is a mentath, and quite useful. As you shall no doubt be. The Yard’s taking an active interest in this?” Not just at the Queen’s bidding, if you are here.

“Third’s a charm. This will be in the broadsheets and dreadfuls before long.” The man’s face was positively mournful. “I don’t suppose you could…”

“Mitigate somewhat?” Her sigh took her by surprise, and Mikal’s comforting warmth at her shoulder was the only thing on Hanbury Street that did not appear worrisome. “My days of mitigation are somewhat past, Inspector. But I shall do what I can.” Mostly to suit myself, for I do not wish to be bruited about in print.

“Well, good. Come along then.” He did not further insult her, which was a very good sign–or a very bad one. He halted, and she noted the breadth of his shoulders under his jacket. Inspector Aberline had not let the iron go cold, as the saying went. “I don’t suppose this is merely a social visit?”

From me? Now there is an amusing thought. “Of course not, sir. I shall, however, see whatever unpleasantness this is to its conclusion, and as quickly as possible.”

“Good. Because the Eastron End’s about to explode.”

Is this a new state of affairs? “Is that so?”

“Foreigners.” His lip actually twisted. He moved through the Scab with a distinctive sliding step. You could always tell Whitchapel flashboys and the like from that step, rolling and settling the weight only after they were sure something under the thick, resilient slime wasn’t going to shift. “Have you still a strong stomach, Miss Bannon?”

“You ask me?” She shook her head, glad Mikal was following step for step. He had not the trick of moving in the Scab’s deep cover, and she could actually hear him.

Her skirts dragged in the caustic sludge, and she let them. Scab would eat at the fabric, but there was no use in holding them high; she might need her hands. No doubt this affair would ruin a frock or two by the end. You can tell a Whitchapel drab by her ankles, the saying went. Or, if you were raised in the argot, A nav’Whit slit shews gam, sh’doon.

She might have let herself consider sending the Crown a bill for whatever cloth was ruined before said end. While amusing, it did not have the savour such thoughts usually did.

Aberline was speaking again. “We’ve mancers now. At the Yard, and in the station houses.” He did not sound pleased by the notion. “I doubt any of them would want to see this.”

And you sensitive to sorcery, but unable to hold a charter symbol in free air. How that must grate upon your pride. “Indeed.”

She followed him to a dark cleft, a passage leading to the back of the building. Mikal’s attention sharpened. The Scab became much thicker, giving reluctantly under her heeled boots and still coating the cobbles at the bottom of every step. Her ankles ached–she had not lost the trick of easing through the mire, but her legs had grown unused to it. Her skin chilled, remembering slipping barefoot and bare-legged through the sludge, dodging cuffs and curses, a stolen apple clutched to her flat child’s chest.

Clare’s voice, indistinct behind her. Philip Pico’s murmured reply. And Mikal’s hand at her shoulder, fingers slightly digging in as if he felt her… uncertainty?

The passageway ended, and Aberline pointed. He needn’t have, for Emma could feel the plucking in the æther all along her body, down into her core. There was no question it was a corpse, and not a drunkard in stupor-sleep.

“No name yet.” Aberline’s expression was set. He pointed to the far end of the yard. “There is the Yudic Workingman’s Club, though. Which will no doubt prove a deadly coincidence.”

“Yudic?” The ætheric disturbance pulsed as if sensing her nearness. Twice now he’s mentioned the Foreigners.