Arthur

31 August 1898

London

...

It was all too bloody familiar. The East End alleyway, the muffled quiet, his people moving about like shadows in the depressing grey drizzle; it was all exactly the same as last time. Christ, even the girl's hair was the same, and how many girls in Whitechapel had hair like that? Arthur didn't like it. Not one bloody bit.

Scowling, he tweaked at his coat collar and started to fumble for his cigarettes. He had managed to secure one between his teeth and was formulating a plan to keep it lit in the miserable weather when a figure emerged from beneath the makeshift canvas tent, which was keeping the worst of the rain off the crime scene, and ducked under the police cordon.

The figure sidestepped around a passing officer and jogged towards him, shoulders hunched against the rain. Arthur grunted out a terse greeting, wrestling with his matches.

"Morning, sir," Alfred replied, coming to a halt in front of Arthur with a brisk salute. Arthur resisted the urge to roll his eyes. The boisterous American had been doing that since his arrival at the Yard, and nothing Arthur could say would persuade him to stop. It was a habit, he said. That had been nearly two months ago, and despite Arthur's hopes to the contrary there seemed to be no signs of him Growing Out Of It any time soon. He supposed it wasn't all bad having at least one of his detectives treat him with some respect – or in Alfred's case, awe – but the American really could be frustratingly exuberant sometimes.

"I thought you'd given that up, sir," Alfred said cheerily, gesturing to the cigarette Arthur was still struggling to light. Arthur glanced at him. Alfred smiled, but it seemed strained. He was clearly making a valiant attempt at his usual bright demeanour, but not quite pulling it off. Still, he had to be commended for trying. Arthur didn't know what kind of things the young detective had seen back in America, but he doubted it could have been anything like… that. He would never admit it, but Arthur was impressed and even more absurdly a little proud that Alfred seemed to be handling this so well. A little pale perhaps, a little shaken, but determined.

"Sir?"

Arthur realised he had been staring too long, and still had not answered. "What?"

Alfred gestured again and this time the smile he gave seemed a little more genuine. "Smoking, sir. I thought you'd given it up."

Arthur blinked. Had he really said that? Blast. "Ah," he said, returning the now soggy matchbox to his coat pocket. "So I have. Right." He plucked the unlit cigarette from his lips and gave it a long, mournful look, before dropping it to the ground and placing his foot over in with a sigh.

Alfred laughed. "You'll thank me someday, sir."

"I don't doubt it," Arthur said dryly. "I had better start saving for a gift basket. Flowers are hellishly expensive these days."

Alfred laughed again, and pushed a few locks of damp hair out of his eyes. He couldn't be sure in the dim light, but Arthur fancied his cheeks looked slightly pink. Now that was interesting. "That really isn't necessary, sir. I'd be happy with chocolate."

The corner of Arthur's lips twitched. "Noted. Now, where is Williams? I want his thoughts on the body."

Alfred's smile vanished. "Oh, uh, he's…" he grimaced. "He's not doing too good, sir."

There was a retching sound from behind the tent, and Alfred looked apologetic.

"I see," Arthur said. "Fetch him please, Jones."

"Yes, sir."

Arthur watched as Alfred darted back towards the tent, and started to pat his pockets before he realised what he was doing and gave a short, bitter laugh. "Given up," he muttered, a hand fishing briefly in his pocket before emerging triumphant, clutching a toothpick. He put the pathetic thing between his teeth and bit down ruefully. "Oh well done, Arthur. Brilliant idea. Sunny as a bunch of roses."

Roses… His cheeks warmed briefly. Why had he said that earlier – about buying flowers for Alfred? He had thought himself terribly clever and witty at the time, but now… and Alfred's reaction… but he had been joking, hadn't he? Good God, he didn't think Arthur had been serious, did he? As brash as the American was, at times he could be nigh unfathomable. He spoke so openly – and so much! – that Arthur sometimes had trouble weeding out the bits that he wasn't meant to take seriously. It was maddening.

Arthur chewed his toothpick vehemently. God he needed a cigarette. Why was he even thinking about this? A woman was lying dead not ten feet away, and here he was, tying himself in knots over a snippet of conversation that Alfred had probably already forgotten about. The whole thing was ridiculous – no, it was bloody shameful. Was he Chief Inspector Kirkland, head of this investigation, or wasn't he?

Yes he bloody well was. So, after filing away the exchange with his charming young detective – er, that is, with Alfred – er, meaning, with Detective Inspector Jones – in the cabinet at the rear of his brain marked 'Agonise Over Later', Chief Inspector Kirkland adjusted his collar and sloped forward through the rain.

Alfred reappeared as he drew up to the canvas tent, accompanied by a slightly green-faced Detective Matthew Williams.

"Alright, Williams?" Arthur said, ignoring the amused look Alfred was giving the now slightly bent toothpick. Matthew made a wobbly attempt at a salute.

"Been better, sir," he said politely.

"Think you can stand another look?"

Arthur had never seen the colour leave a man's face so quickly. Matthew looked as though he might have keeled over if Alfred hadn't had an iron grip on his arm. "I…"

"This isn't the worst you'll see, Williams," Arthur said, not unkindly. "Atrocities are our jam and bread. May as well get used to it, eh?"

Matthew didn't answer, but after a moment he straightened up a bit and nodded, his face still pale but somehow hardened with a quiet determination that made him look even more like Alfred than usual, if that were possible. Arthur grinned around his toothpick and clapped him heartily on the shoulder. "Right then. Once more into the breach." And with that he lifted the oilskin curtain and ducked into the tent.

Despite what he had told Matthew, Arthur didn't really believe that one could ever just Get Used To It – and that was how it should be. Being able to recognise inhumanity confirmed that his own humanity, while having taken a beating over the years, was still intact. The day his job stopped making him sick to his core would be the day he retired.

Today was not that day.

Just like last time, it was the smell that hit him first. Back then he had written it off as the smell of the corpse – a rusty warmth, a sour-sweet tang, earthy and organic. But he had seen a thing or two since then, and now he knew better. There was nothing natural about this smell. It was old; the woman spread-eagled in the mud could not have been more than twenty, and her body was only now beginning to cool – hardly long enough to raise much of a stink. This in itself was enough to give Arthur more than a few misgivings.

Alfred and Matthew had entered quietly behind him. When he stole a glance at them, he found Alfred staring at the woman with an expression caught somewhere between mournfulness and anger, fists clenched as though he could beat the injustice from the world. Matthew, fighting back another wave of vomit, had developed a sudden overwhelming fascination with the rear wall of the tent. At least some of the colour had returned to his cheeks - even if that colour was green.

Arthur cleared his throat. Misgivings were all very well and good, but he had to be sure. Matthew had gone through medical school. He knew about bodies; how they should work when they were alive, and how they should look when they're dead. He wasn't their official coroner, true, but Arthur would choose young Matthew over that Swiss creep Zwingli any day of the week.

"The crime scene's down here, Williams," he said gently, gesturing to the floor. "I want your opinion on this."

Matthew looked stricken. "I don't think I'm going to be of much use, sir…"

"I'll be the judge of that, if you don't mind," Arthur said. Matthew swallowed, nodding once, stiffly, before peeling his eyes from the stained canvas.

"The – uh – the deceased appears to be in her early twenties," Matthew began falteringly, Adam's apple bobbing beneath the pale skin of his throat. His eyes darted briefly to Arthur, who nodded a mute 'go on'.

"Her face has been mutilated," he went on, crouching to gesture at the body. He seemed to have drawn some courage from the brief glance he had exchanged with Arthur, because his voice strengthened as he went on. "Probably with the same knife that caused the incisions to the neck, here and here, severing every major blood vessel. She would have bled out in minutes. And the single incision here, running the length of the abdomen. Her – uh – Alfred? My bag… gloves in the front pocket… yes, thank you. Her uterus and… heart have been removed. The cuts are clean and there seems to be no damage to any of the other organs, so whoever did this knew what they were doing."

Arthur gnawed thoughtfully at his toothpick. "A surgeon, then."

"Not necessarily," Matthew said. "Any kind of doctor would have the knowledge required to do this. A medical student, or someone with steady hands and enough interest in the subject to pick up a text book. Even a butcher…"

"A butcher?"

Matthew nodded. "A human isn't really all that different from a pig, once you open it up. From an anatomical point of view at least," he added when Alfred made an affronted noise. "Obviously the moral implications are somewhat less ambiguous. What I'm saying is that whoever did this has an intimate knowledge of human anatomy. Where he got it from is open to speculation."

Arthur suppressed a sigh. "Alright. Tell me about the knife."

"The knife?" Matthew ran his eyes over the body. "Well, there's not much to be said about it, really. Not a scalpel – the edges of the incisions are too rough – but more than that…" he shrugged apologetically. "Sorry sir."

Arthur wasn't quite sure how much he wanted to tell them at this point, but this was important. "But it's definitely a knife?" he pressed.

Matthew glanced at him in surprise. "What else could it be, sir?"

Arthur could feel Alfred looking at him as if he had gone mad. He ignored him. "You tell me."

Matthew's questioning gaze remained on him a second longer, then returned to the body. "I – I don't know what else it could be," he floundered. "It has to be a knife, nothing else coul-"

"Is there something you aren't telling us, sir?" Alfred cut in abruptly. The question had been innocent enough, but when Arthur turned he found Alfred staring at him with an alarmingly keen intensity.

Blast. Was he really so transparent?

"We've heard the others talking," Alfred went on. "And we've both read the case files. This is his M.O., right? He cuts the girl's throat, guts her, and hacks off her face."

Matthew winced. "Alfred, please."

"It's the Ripper again," Alfred finished triumphantly, barrelling right over Matthew's discomfit. "He's back."

Arthur let the words hang between them for a long, long moment, before nodding stiffly.

"It appears so."

"But… he died, didn't he?"

Arthur and Alfred both turned to look at Matthew as he stood up. His gloves were red with viscera, and he peeled them off carefully.

"The Ripper, I mean. He was killed. That's what it says in the case file."

That case file says a lot of things, Arthur thought darkly, and very few of them are true. No one would have believed the truth. I'm still not entirely sure I do, and I was there. "It seems we were mistaken," he added aloud. "Either that, or we have a very dedicated copycat on our hands."

"But you don't think so, sir?"

Arthur sighed. "No, Alfred. Unfortunately I do not."

Alfred opened his mouth, but whatever he might have said was interrupted when the oilskins parted and the rain-streaked face of one of the local officers appeared between them. He had a harassed look, and Arthur suppressed a groan of foreboding. He knew that look. He knew it far too well.

"Excuse me, er, Detective Inspector Kirkland?"

Oh, gods, he hoped he was wrong. He gave the man as piercing a look as he could manage. "Yes, what is it?"

"There's, er… there's someone here to see you. He seemed, er… quite eager." He stared at Arthur beseechingly.

Arthur relented. Making things difficult at this point would only be forestalling the inevitable. "I'll be out shortly," he said in resigned tone. The officer looked as though he might have wept with relief and quickly ducked out of the tent.

"This shouldn't take long," Arthur said, moving to follow him. "Canvas the area, see if you can dredge up a witness or two. I don't expect you'll find any, but it does no harm to try, eh?"

The oilskins slapped into place on the dual cries of "Yes, sir!" as Arthur stepped out into the rain, turning up his collar as he did so. The sun must have been properly up by now, but it was so cunningly hidden behind mile upon mile of grey precipitation that you wouldn't have known it. He began to jog towards the mouth of the alley, scanning what he could see of the opposing street for his… what had the man said? Eager visitor. He laughed mirthlessly to himself. Gods, he would kill for a cigarette.

He reached the mouth of the alley and came to a halt, casting a reluctant look up and down the adjoining street. He had almost begun to hope that his visitor had thought better of it, when-

"Bonjour, Detective!"

A figure was waving enthusiastically at him from the other side of the street – he could have sworn it had been empty a moment ago, but he had learned long ago to forego logic when it came to dealing with this particular individual.

For a brief, glowing moment he considered pretending he had not seen the man and simply strolling back the way he had come, but the way he was waving – dear God what was that thing? It looked like a frilly mushroom – was already attracting an unfortunate amount of attention from the other officers. There was nothing for it.

Courage, Arthur, he told himself as he crossed the street, with the air of a man taking his final steps up to the gallows. Just find out what he wants, and for God's sake keep your temper…

"Good morning, dear Arthur!" the Frenchman beamed as Arthur approached, seemingly oblivious to the rain. Arthur grunted in response. At least he had stopped waving that horrific thing, which as Arthur drew closer revealed itself to be an umbrella, though it was such a glaring shade of pink and so decked in frills that it was hardly recognisable as one. On second thought, he supposed it was a fitting accessory for a man wearing something as offensive as a royal blue suit – good Lord, was that velvet? Arthur eyed the umbrella warily, coming to a halt just outside its lacy circumference as though he feared it would bite him.

"Ah yes, it is quite lovely, is it not?" the man said, apparently mistaking Arthur's disgusted look as one of appreciation. "Sadly it is not mine; I borrowed it from a most gracious young woman as we passed one another. This English weather." He shook his head pityingly, as if he could imagine nothing worse.

"There is nothing wrong with English weather, Bonnefoy," Arthur said defensively, just as the sky opened and the drizzle became a downpour.

"Of course not," Francis said unctuously, smiling down at him. It was a moment before he realised he had jumped reflexively into the shelter of Francis' hideous umbrella.

Bloody hell, it was velvet. "Oh, bugger off," he grumbled. "Why are you here?"

If Arthur's withering glare bothered him, Francis didn't show it. If anything his grin merely widened. "My dear Arthur, I should think that would be obvious."

Arthur shifted uncomfortably, glancing briefly back towards the crime scene.

"I was right, then. It's all happening again."

"I'm afraid so." Arthur didn't think he sounded afraid at all.

"No need to sound so gleeful, Bonnefoy," he said tiredly. "People have died." When he looked back, Francis was examining his nails.

"Oh, yes. They always have, and will continue to."

"That doesn't mean I have to like it."

"Who said anything about liking it?" At least he had the decency to look affronted this time. "Do you think I enjoy this?"

Arthur raised a doubtful eyebrow. Francis pressed a hand to his chest, adopting a wounded expression.

"My dear Arthur!" he cried. "How could you think such things of me? You of all people should know that my first and foremost concern has always been – and always will be – the safety of the people!"

"Oh, yes," Arthur said scathingly. "And how much do want for securing our safety this time, O wise and compassionate protector?"

Francis let out a wounded yelp, clutching his heart. "Arthur! That you would even entertain the thought of my wanting compensation for what is my civic duty – and indeed, my absolute and unending pleasure – why, it is enough to break my heart!"

Arthur was unmoved by this spiel. It was nothing he had not heard before. "How much, Bonnefoy?" he repeated tiredly.

Francis regarded him mournfully. "A mere pittance," he said at last, waving a hand dismissively. "No, wait, let me speak," he added quickly, as Arthur scoffed and turned to leave.

"No, I don't think I will," Arthur threw over his shoulder as he ducked out into the rain, heading back towards the crime scene at a furious pace. He was being childish, he knew that, but he didn't much care and right now the nameless girl's mutilated corpse seemed like better company than the infuriating Frenchman behind him.

Francis caught up with him easily. "Arthur, dear, sweet, lovely Arthur. Look, I have to make a living somehow, don't I?"

"Oh? Has business in the underworld been slower than usual?" Arthur shot back, refusing to look at him. "Don't think I don't know what you really get up to under the cover of that precious little clock shop of yours."

"Oh, such lies, Arthur! They ill-befit the sweet curve of your lips. I am but an honest clockmaker."

"Clockmaker? Perhaps. Honest?" Arthur scoffed, ignoring the comment about his lips with practised ease. "Please."

"You wound me. Would you listen, you infuriating little man?" His patience finally reaching its limit, Francis seized Arthur by the arm and swung him round to face him. "Do you really think you can do this by yourself?"

Arthur shook off the Frenchman's hand. Of course he couldn't do this by himself; he was a thousand leagues out of his depth and he knew it. But still, prideful stubbornness dictated that he say, "I can try."

"Do that and I promise you will lose everything you hold dear."

Francis' uncharacteristically sober words sent a chill down Arthur's spine. "As long as I get this bastard off the streets, I don't care what it costs."

As soon as he said it Arthur could taste the lie. And if he could taste it, god knew that French nose could smell it.

"Who is the liar now, dear Arthur?" Francis said quietly. "There is always something we could never bear to lose. Always."

Arthur was silent. Francis took this as leave to continue.

"Listen," he said gently. "There is no shame in accepting help when it is needed. And it is certainly needed," he added with a short laugh. "As for payment, well, we shall worry about that afterwards. I promise it is something you will not even miss. In fact, I won't be taking anything from you at all."

Well that didn't seem at all suspicious. In all the time he had known him, Francis had never just done something for nothing. Just what the devil was he supposed to make of it? Not that he had much choice but to trust him. As distasteful as that prospect was, the alternative was even more so. "Alright," Arthur said warily. "Fine. So, what are we going to do?"

"Magnifique," Francis beamed, producing a small roll of paper from a breast pocket. "You don't have to do anything. It is all taken care of. Here, Pierre." This was addressed to the small but incredibly fat white cuckoo that had emerged from beneath Francis' golden mop of hair. As Arthur watched, the bird took the paper in its beak, gave a muffled grumble, and launched off Francis' shoulder, quickly disappearing into the rain.

Arthur blinked. "Wait, what? What did you just do?"

Francis heaved a deeply exaggerated sigh. "Do try to keep up, Arthur. You need help, yes? And who better to help with this…" his fingers fluttered vaguely as he searched for the appropriate word. "Singular situation, than our very own Brothers Grimm? Now, if that is all, I must return this charming umbrella to its owner. Such a shame…"

Francis was already moving away by the time the cogs of Arthur's brain had finished turning and he realised where the bird was going.

"Oh no, no, no, no you don't," he cried, striding after him. "You are not bringing them here again. Not after what happened last time."

Francis turned on his heel, raising a free hand in a supplicating gesture. "I am sorry, my dear, but that bird has already flown. Literally."

"I won't have it!" Arthur raged. "That madman destroyed half the city by the time the Ripper was dealt with – do you have any idea of the expense? All the lies, the reports and files we had to fabricate to cover it all up? And for nothing, as it turns out! Call the bird back, or so help me I'll-"

"Uh, sir?"

"WHAT?" Arthur roared, wheeling around to face a suddenly terrified Alfred. Arthur's cheeks coloured immediately. "Er…" He could feel Francis' amused gaze on him, adding even more fire to his face. "Yes, Jones? What is it?"

"Oh, uh, it's nothing, sir," Alfred faltered, stepping away quickly. "It can wait."

"No," said Arthur and Francis simultaneously.

"Shame on you, Arthur," Francis berated, "hiding away all the beautiful young men, without thinking to share. Though I can see why he would want to. I am Francis Bonnefoy, a friend of dear Arthur's," he added, ignoring Arthur's indignant sputters to step forward and extend his hand to the befuddled young detective.

Alfred shook it dazedly. "Uh, Alfred Jones," he replied. "Detective Inspector Alfred Jones."

Francis smiled wolfishly. "Enchanté."

Arthur didn't at all like how Francis was looking at Alfred; it set something on fire in the twist of his gut and oh gods, did he really just wink? Right, time to put a stop to this before things really got out of hand. "Francis was just leaving," Arthur cut in loudly. "Weren't you, Francis?" he added, pouring as much sweet venom into the words as he could muster. Play along you French bastard or it will be your corpse I'm hiding away…

"Alas, the tiny Englishman is right," Francis conceded with another of his ridiculous sighs. "I have a pressing engagement that must be fulfilled. Au revoir, dear Alfred. I do not doubt that we will meet again very soon." He winked again, and with that he turned and moved off through the rain, waving a languid hand in farewell. In another moment he had rounded the corner of the street and was gone.

Arthur released a pent up sigh and dragged the back of his hand across his eyes. "Sorry about that, Jones," he managed. "Francis can be a bit much at the best of times."

Alfred laughed. "No, it's fine. He's an old friend of yours?"

"You could say that." They began to walk back to the cordon. "He's been helping the Yard in one way or another since before I was your age. A right pain in the arse, but useful."

"Really? That's weird. He doesn't look much older than you."

Arthur gave him a Look. "And how old would that be?" he asked coolly.

Alfred almost tripped. "Oh, I – uh… I didn't mean-"

"Steady on, Jones. I know what you meant. It's something in that French food, probably. Frogs' legs or something. Makes them nigh immortal."

"Blimey," Alfred breathed. Arthur could almost see him mentally adding frogs to his weekly grocery list, but he didn't have the heart to tell him that he had been joking. It was oddly endearing, the way he trusted Arthur so completely.

But when he thought about how utterly he was betraying that trust with every second he spent avoiding the truth – the whole truth, terrifying in its enormity and oh gods where would he even begin? – that feeling of endearment quickly turned sour. It would have to be soon. A woman was dead, Francis had emerged from whatever seedy underworld hole he had been hiding in, and the wheels had been set in motion. Soon they would all be caught up in it, whether they were ready or not.

"We canvased the area like you said, sir," Alfred said abruptly, startling Arthur out of his brood. "We didn't find anything. All the surrounding buildings are boarded up. It doesn't look like anyone's lived here in years…"

Arthur nodded absently. The East End had emptied after the last time the Ripper had torn through here, Whitechapel haemorrhaging its people into the surrounding boroughs and turning whole blocks of housing into hard, vacant skins. Some of the buildings had been torn down and rebuilt, at an almost painful pace of two, maybe three a year, but few wanted to return. The whole place was haunted now; a graveyard, home to the mad and the desperate. Arthur wondered vaguely which category their dead girl belonged to. Would anyone lament her death?

"Looks like the rain is easing," Alfred said brightly. Arthur glanced up.

"Yes, so it is. Thank God for small miracles, eh?"

"Yeah. Maybe it's a sign. You know, that things are looking up."

Alfred's smile cut into Arthur's already guilty soul like a knife. He honestly believes that, doesn't he? That things will actually get better. Arthur wondered what it must be like to have that kind of faith. Nice, he supposed.

"Perhaps," he conceded as they ducked under the cordon. "Where's Williams got to?"

"Matthew? Oh, he was taking another look at the body. That whole knife thing really got under his skin." Alfred shrugged and turned to drum his knuckles on the wall of the tent. "Hey Matt, you still in there?"

"Yeah," came Matthew's muted reply. "And I think I might have found something. Is the Chief with you?"

"Yeah, he's here."

"I – uh, I think he ought to see this."

Alfred exchanged a quizzical glance with Arthur, before wordlessly pulling aside the makeshift door.

"You too, Jones," Arthur said as he ducked into the tent. Alfred's eyes lit up, and he followed quickly.

"What have you got, Williams?" Arthur asked, as soon as they were all inside.

Matthew brushed his hair out of his eyes with the back of a glove. "I'm not entirely sure, sir. I had a feeling that there was something odd about the throat wounds, but it wasn't until you asked about the knife that I thought to take a closer look. And I found this," he finished breathlessly, holding up a small evidence bag.

Arthur took it carefully. There wasn't much to be seen in the dim light apart from a small red smear in the bottom of the bag. He peered at it blankly.

"Tell me what I'm looking at, Williams."

Matthew swallowed. "It's a tooth, sir. Or rather, a splinter from a tooth."

"Not the victim's?"

Matthew shook his head. "All intact."

They were both looking at him, waiting for the explanation that he surely had. And he did have it. This was it, the final piece. The wheels were well and truly turning now, and he could either keep waiting and be crushed, or take the leap.

It was hardly a choice at all.

Wordlessly pocketing the evidence, Arthur spat the chewed-up remains of the toothpick onto the floor and reached for his cigarettes.

"Tell me, boys," he began conversationally. "How much do you know about vampires?"

Author's Notes

Aaaaaah it's so good to be writing again! Please forgive any inaccuracies, I'm not an expert on Victorian London, crime scene investigation, or forensic pathology... but if there is anything too glaring please let me know and I'll do my best to fix it! Poor Arthur... for those who are wondering (probably no one), yes, jibes about his height are probably going to become a running gag. Oops?

Anyways I'm so excited about this fic like you have no idea. I have the first couple of chapters planned out already, so expect the next one in a couple of weeks. No spoilers, but I will tell you that it will be from Ludwig's perspective, like this one was from Arthur's. I'll be switching perspectives with each chapter, so if you aren't down for that then, well, tough nuts. But don't worry, no first-person perspectives here my friends.

Thanks for reading and please review!