The Ripper Affair

“Indeed.” Emma stepped past Mikal, who examined the body of what appeared to be a costermonger laid on a chipped, traditional marble slab, hands and feet pierced with true iron and the gashes scorched with charter symbols to ensure the corpse’s peace. The heavyset man’s mouth was pried open, the funnel for pouring salt or wine into the cavity laid aside. No flatscraper for pitch to seal the spirit away, so the barrowmancer judged him unlikely to have died by violence. “The report?”

“Ah, yes, will fetchit. Ye’re nae gon swoon?”

“I think I may be able to avoid swooning, thank you. In any case, I have plenty of assistance.”

“Aye.” He paused, studying Clare, then shot a dark glance at Mikal. “Ye’re nae gon turn a fillian?”

“I most likely will not be calling her spirit forth to answer questions, never fear.” She tried not to sound amused. “And in any case, I would not do such a thing here. I am not so irresponsible.”

“Well, tha’s mun fair.” He nodded, and touched his hat. “Will fetch tha report, then. Mind you, she’s not decent.”

“Corpses rarely are, sir. Thank you.”

He hurried out, followed by the morguelrat, whose filmed gaze betrayed precious little excitement. Of course, morguels were taken from the workhouse’s lowest strata, since a self-respecting beggar would hesitate to spend his days with the dead. For all that, they had room and board, if they did not mind sharing it with said corpses, and the peculiar blindness that struck after a few years of such work did not seem to bother most of them. Perhaps by then they had seen enough that sightlessness was a blessing.

Odd, how barrowmancers were not feared, though their Discipline was only slightly less Black than Emma’s own. To shake hands with morguelrats was considered just slightly less lucky than with chimneysweeps.

“I do not think I shall ever become accustomed to that,” Clare muttered darkly.

“To what, sir?” There was much in the current situation she herself did not wish to become accustomed to.

“To how casually you speak of bringing a shade forth to answer questions.”

“I have never done it in your presence for a reason, Clare.”

“And I appreciate your restraint.” He all but shuddered, smoothing his jacket sleeves. The black armband, secured with a pin-charm, was a mute reproach.

As if she needed more than the weight of her own mourning-cloth. She did not fully indulge in a widow’s bleakness; perhaps she should the next time she was forced to see the Queen. Although perhaps Victrix would likely take little notice of whatever Emma chose to wear.

“Are you quite well, Clare?” It was not like him to show such discomfort.

“Quite. I…” He shook his head, arranged his hat more firmly upon his head. Mikal, giving the costermonger’s body a thorough appraisal, appeared to ignore them both. “It has been rather a trying… yes, rather a trying week.”

She was about to reply, but her attention fastened afresh on the body she had come to view. How very curious.

The æther trembled around it, not the quiver of a living being producing disturbance and energy or the low foxfire of soul-residue. She stood, head cocked to the side, and took in what she could with every sense, physical or otherwise, she possessed.

Mikal appeared at her shoulder, his hand closing about her upper arm. He had noted her sudden stillness, and was ready to act as anchor or defence.

The corpse in question was a middle-aged woman, heavy and inert on a discoloured marble slab. Her mouth was open, and one could see the stubs of rotten teeth, as well as the searing from the preparatory mixture of hot caustic salts that preceded sour pitch.

Clare stepped to the side, his head cocked at a familiar angle. When he had gained all he could from observing the corpse’s face, he reached for the ragged sheet covering her and glanced at Emma.

She nodded, a fractional movement, but one his eyes were sharp enough to discern. They had examined other bodies; it was, still, not quite routine. Ritual, certainly, though neither of them stood overmuch on ceremony when bodies were involved in an affair such as this.

She closed away that distracting line of thought. Attention was called for.

What is that? There, and there, it moves very peculiarly. And there. Most interesting. I wonder… She extended a tendril of non-physical awareness, delicately, and recoiled swiftly when the æther over the body trembled.

Mikal said nothing, but his awareness sharpened.

Clare twitched the sheet down to the woman’s hips. The marks of a brutal life were clearly visible and the sewn-up gashes from autopsy–and the attack that had killed her–were livid. He folded the sheet with prissy carefulness, then took its edge and uncovered the rest of her, tucking the neat package of cloth at her feet. Her knees turned outward, and the ragged aperture between her legs oozed dark, brackish corpsefluid.