“And it will not distress you if I have… unorthodox methods of detecting?”
“My own are rather strange, sir.” Clare blinked. “Do go on.”
“Very well.” Yet Aberline still seemed uncomfortable. “The obsession dictates the murder. I shall now tell you what I have ascertained, Mr Clare. The murderer has practised his deadly art. He will be extremely difficult to catch. He is possessed of a coach or some other conveyance, and he has some aim in mind.” He drew a deep breath. “And he is nowhere near finished.”
Clare nodded, slowly. “I see. You are certain he has a conveyance? A personal chariot of some sort to travel from one nightmarish deed to the next?”
“I am.”
“How are you so certain?”
“I…” Aberline coughed, looking even more uncomfortable. “I cannot say.”
“Quite interesting.” Clare nodded again. “Tell me what you can say, then.”
“The very idea of lustmorden is so repulsive, it is difficult to even convince our superiors of its existence. To them, Murder is a product of Insanity and Criminal Character alone, and no room is granted for… for lack of a better word, no room is granted for sheer evil.” Aberline coughed slightly. “I am of the opinion that those who rise in the world’s estimation do not often make the best detective inspectors, but they do make excellent commissioners and mayors and lord justices.” A cloud passed over his features, but he waved a hand, dismissing it.
This had all the character of a speech polished over long, sleepless nights, and Clare settled himself to the peculiar state of absorbed attention he often practised when Miss Bannon could be induced to speak at length on a subject she found interesting.
It was the interest–or the outright obsession–of an intelligent subject that often led to the most fruitful lines of enquiry and deduction, even if the subject was blind to them as a consequence of said obsession.
Oh, so Miss Bannon is a subject now? She is not present; do not think upon her. He brought his attention back to the matter at hand, and nodded, since Aberline had given him an enquiring glance.
“Proceed,” he said, and a prickle of… irritation?… furrowed his brow.
If it had been Miss Bannon speaking, she would not have needed the glance to ascertain his attention.
“You have rather a listening air, sir, and it is most welcome. Do tell me if I—”
Let us move on, and quickly, too. “These murders–lustmorden is a very evocative name indeed–are of a variety and species your superiors, if we can call them that, are not equipped to effectively halt. By virtue of your almost daily experience of the effects and settings of Vice and Crime, you have acquired a body of knowledge which grants you certain… feelings, if you will, for the causes and prevention of both. Which leads you to conflict within the Yard, for though you have many other fine qualities, you do not have the necessary oil to smooth bureaucratic waters.”
The silence greeting his observation might have been uncomfortable if Aberline had not been smiling broadly.
“Quite so,” he finally said. “Quite so. Lestraid is much better at it, and without him, I confess, I am somewhat at the mercy of my own temperament. It does not help that my methods are… In some cases, I have been accused of being little better than a criminal myself.”
Ah. Now there is a frank admission. The mementos on the shelves were either tokens of cases where Aberline had known the criminal and mucked himself in order to bring him or her to justice… or tokens of victims he had been unable to avenge, even by behaving in a not-so-noble fashion.
Or both. So little separated a bootleather knight from a criminal.
You have grown philosophical, Clare.
He turned to another avenue of thought. The man’s mien was so sober and exacting, it was difficult to conceive of him as one willing to turn the law so that the spirit instead of the letter was fulfilled.
Which meant Clare must look more closely at him. Appearances deceived, and such a valuable clew into a man’s character was not to be taken lightly. Especially when Clare himself was… was he?
Yes. He was distracted. It boded rather ill.
Aberline shrugged. “The fact that I have some small ætheric talent–not enough to charm,” he added hurriedly, “no, not enough to be apprenticed, to be sure! And yet I am viewed with a certain trepidation by every hemisphere of the Yard.”
“Sorcerous or not,” Clare clarified, “bootleather or bonnet.”
“Indeed.” Aberline looked gratified to be so comprehended. He settled himself more deeply in his chair, and his gaze focused on the shelves of mementoes and files, leatherbound books and bundles of paper. “Yet I digress. Lustmorden all share certain characteristics, which Lestraid and I have isolated by poring through bloodcurdling accounts of deeds unfit for print. These murders share such characteristics—”
“Which include?” Clare prodded.
“Savagery, for one. But that is not enough. A certain method–the progression is quite clear. The murderer begins with experimentation, though one may see the, ahem, you could call it the marks of his obsession—”
“His?”
“Oh, a woman may drink, and a woman may poison, and there may even be the rare woman like Miss Bannon, who is more a viper in frail flesh than a proper female. But a woman does not commit lustmorden. It is simply unthinkable.”
Clare’s silence was taken for agreement, and Aberline continued. He had quite warmed to his theme.
“For one thing, the violence of the attacks is anathema to a woman. For another, the driving force is… well, the name says it quite clearly. The driving force is the prerogative of the male.”
“I see,” Clare murmured.
“The marks of the obsession are very particular, and unique to each criminal. Rather as the Anthropometric school of thought holds that the ridges on each man’s hands are unique–are you familiar with Faulds, and Bertillon, dactyloscopy? Very good. Lustmorden is merely an outgrowth of the principle that a criminal’s chosen vice is an expression of their personality… the theory is complex,” Aberline acknowledged, and pushed himself to his feet. He paced to the window, looking up at the gleam of strengthening daylight piercing layers of fog and falling on his face, shadowing the traces of sleeplessness and care. Driving them deeper.
How frail flesh is. Yet Clare’s own, now… not so at all. He found the logical consequence to Aberline’s pause. “The initial attack, the one that came to such attention recently, was not the first? Is that what you mean?”
“There are plenty that bear the same marks; the avocation of drink and prostitution is a hazardous one. But the site of the Tebrem murder… there were troubling… would you believe me, sir, if I said I possessed what a colonist might call ‘an intuition’? A… feeling, one sharpened by my… experiences.”
“I would believe you.” Clare sought for the right tone. “You are saying that there may have been others, but the Tebrem murder was successful enough to propel the murderer forward? It stoked the fire of his obsession past the critical point, and we are now—”
“—facing what may become an explosion. Especially since the Eastron End bears a distressing resemblance to a powder-keg recently. The influx of Yudics, the Eirean troubles, the Red, sheer laziness and ill character finding its level, so to speak, and the dreadfuls and broadsheets irresponsibly striking sparks against a very short fuse.” He turned on his heel, striding for the shelf, and reached for a redrope folder.
Holding it, he looked even more solicitor-like, and Clare had to quash a moment of amusement. The situation most certainly did not call for a smile, and his expression might be misinterpreted.