“Bloody sorcerers,” Aberline muttered.
“Quite.” Miss Bannon’s soft tone did not alter. “No doubt you are lucky to not be among their number, Inspector.”
Aberline’s response was even more interesting. His throat and cheeks turned an ugly brick red. “And curse you too, you foul-skirted little—”
“Inspector!” Clare had not meant to say it loudly. Nor had he meant to leap to his feet, whereupon he slopped lukewarm tea out of its mug again. “Mind yourself, sir!”
Silence filled the office. Miss Bannon sighed, and slumped wearily. To see her posture crumble was shocking enough, but to see Mikal’s reaction–he dug his fingers into her delicate shoulder cruelly, hawk’s talons on a small soft piece of prey–was simply dreadful.
She straightened, and took another mannerly sip of tea. “Much as I would dearly like to hold an accounting with you, Aberline, it serves much better to use your particular talents–including those you wish you possessed more than a pittance of–otherwise.”
“And who are you serving?” Aberline’s colour had not faded. “Any sorcerer could do this, you say—”
“It requires a Prime, not that such a distinction matters to you. Nevertheless, I shall overlook your rather base and certainly groundless accusation. I could retreat behind my walls and let this affair take its course. Indeed, I am rather tempted to. It does not matter to me, sir. To be perfectly frank, neither do you.”
“Likewise,” Aberline managed, in a choked whisper.
“Then we understand each other.” Miss Bannon did not look at him. She studied her tea as if it held a secret, and Clare began to feel faintly ridiculous, but unwilling to sink back into the chair. His foot had stopped throbbing, and he realised with a certain relief that he was finally free of the poppy’s effects.
Make a note, Clare. It lingers for hours. Acceptable in some cases, but not in all. His faculties shivered inside his skull, and the irrationality of the creature in Mytre Square receded into a mental drawer for further study later, if necessary.
His straightening and throat-clearing focused every gaze in the room upon him. “Such discussions do nothing to impede this madman,” he observed. “Miss Bannon, it appears you have a plan, or at least the glimmerings of one. Be so kind as to tell us our parts.”
“And you will perform them without question or qualm?” The words quite lacked her accustomed crispness. She sounded rather as if she doubted the notion.
“Yes,” Clare said, immediately. “And so will the good inspector, and I do not even have to wonder upon your Shield’s willingness. Each of us in this room is a loyal subject of Britannia. Besides, this affair is an affront to public order. One simply cannot have this… thing… running about, murdering as it pleases.”
“And yet women die every night, in the Eastron End and elsewhere, under the lash and the knife.” Miss Bannon shook her head. “Forgive me, Clare. I am weary enough to be unnecessarily philosophical.”
A curious tightness had built in his chest, as if he were suffering the angina again. “That is beyond my purview.” Stiffly, as if he were in the courtroom again, Valentinelli a silent presence in the crowd. “But at least we may halt this particular killer. I saw it–this spirit, I presume, that would replace Britannia–feasting upon the body of its victim, rather as would an animal.”
A peculiar look drifted over Miss Bannon’s dirt-smudged, childlike, tear-streaked face. “Not so surprising… do sit, Archibald, and tell me everything.”
“Glove, or Recall?” It was an old jest, and her shadow of a smile rewarded him. “I suggest we repair to our homes, Miss Bannon, and that you lift your ban upon Inspector Aberline at your dinner table. This rather has the earmarks of an extraordinary situation, and I assure you, for the moment Mr Finch is the last thing on Inspector Aberline’s capacious mind.”
Aberline made a strangled sound, but his assent was clear.
Miss Bannon studied Clare, over the rim of her mug.
He suppressed the urge to cajole, settled instead for bare, dry fact. “We could all certainly use a spot of rest; we shall no doubt perform our parts better for it.” He paused, but she still wore that extraordinary expression. Thoughtful, certainly, her eyebrows arched and her head tilted slightly, bright interest in her gaze and her weariness put aside for the moment. “And we may discuss our next moves at your excellent table, where we are unlikely to be overheard or disturbed. It is the logical path to take.”
“I am convinced, sir.” She handed her mug to Mikal, who had turned loose her shoulder and hooded his yellow eyes, whether from exhaustion or displeasure was difficult to measure. “Inspector. Present yourself at my door at half past five; I dine early and I believe we should discuss some aspects of this affair privately before we do so. The moment you treat Geoffrey Finch with anything less than complete courtesy, I shall learn the look of your blood.” She rose, arranging her torn skirts as smartly as possible. “Mikal? Two hansoms, please, engage one to wait upon Clare and Philip. Good morning, Inspector, and I wish you luck with clearing up this mess. Should you need to, invoke my name with Waring and he will prove slightly more amenable; I have already prepared the ground for you in that regard.”
Her timing, as usual, was impeccable, for at that moment Philip Pico flung the door wide without bothering to knock.
He was loaded down with a burlap sack full of bulges Clare’s fastidious nose identified as sausage and cheese, filched from Heaven alone knew where. “Had a spot of luck, I did. You’ll have to use your own knife on the bangers, sir and madam–ah. We’re leaving, then?”
“Quite.” She had retreated into her shell of calm precision, and swept towards Pico in the manner of a frigate swooping upon its prey. “Half past five, Inspector.”
The lad hurried aside, Mikal shut the door behind his mistress, and Aberline let loose an oath Clare chose to ignore as Philip Pico’s eyebrows nested in his hairline.
“And you feel emboldened to make a promise upon my behaviour, sir?” The good inspector was outright fuming, and had gained his feet with a speed that was, considering the night’s events, quite astonishing. “Why, I’ve a mind to—”
“You use the poppy in the manner the Grecque oracles used laurel fumes, to amplify your small sorcerous talent in some manner.” Clare nodded. “Quite interesting. I must confess I was not taking notes, but Memory will serve me when I have a few moments to gather myself. Such a thing is not quite legal, sir.”
The strength visibly left Aberline’s legs. He sat down again, heavily, and the choler had fled his cheeks.
“I have,” Clare continued, “been acquainted with Miss Bannon for a very long time, despite certain… variances… in our natures. On one point, however, we are emphatically not at variance, and that is in our service to what I would once have called Crown and Empire, but am now forced to name a very odd brand of Justice.” He realised he was pontificating, cleared his throat again. The tea was dreadful, and cold now to boot. “I have noted that the lady in question does not, as a matter of habit, overstate her case. Quite the opposite. I believe we are facing a threat to the very foundations of Britannia, and you, sir, are a loyal son of the Isle. It is your duty to be pleasant and forthcoming while pursuing this matter under Miss Bannon’s direction, and should it become necessary, sir, we shall settle like gentlemen after its conclusion.” He fixed the inspector with what he hoped was a steely, quelling look. “I would be quite happy to meet you.”