As Anger stepped down from the carriage, his boot sank into the mud on the first step. The place, as always, was permeated with a nauseating stench.
"Detective Hastings." A voice came from within the fog.
A man in an East End Division uniform emerged from the shadows of an alleyway, his hat pulled low. He rubbed his hands together, his breath forming brief plumes in the cold air.
"Detective Fellows." Anger nodded, pulling his credentials from his inner coat pocket and retrieving some tools from the carriage.
Carter gave the papers a glance. "So the Yard actually sent someone."
His tone held no welcome. "The body's deep in the alley. The scene isn't... pleasant."
"Murder scenes rarely are," Anger said, putting his credentials away.
It had been less than half an hour after Hendrick left the office that Anger found himself temporarily reassigned to assist with the investigation in Whitechapel, East End.
He didn't understand if it was the Chief's doing or the Church's meddling. He was supposed to be investigating the Viscountess's case, yet here he was, reassigned to assist.
He shouldn't have been the one sent. At the very least, Miller could have taken it. Miller would have been willing.
Miller had always seen Anger as a rival, constantly vying for cases at the station. Besides, this time the case was specifically noted as being 'a bit odd'. How could Miller let such a thing slip through his fingers so easily?
Seeing Anger didn't ask further, Carter led him directly into the alley. "I didn't mean the blood. I meant..." He seemed to search for the right word. "Strange."
Carter was uneasy. The East End, Whitechapel, saw plenty of cases—vicious brawls, maimings, other murders. You could say they happened every day. But applying to the Yard for this one... he hadn't expected a response so quickly.
The alley was narrow, barely wide enough for one person. The brick walls on either side were exposed, covered in moss.
What drifted over was a smell of burning. Acrid. But that word didn't fully capture it. Beyond the acridity, it felt... hollow.
"The first to find her was the milkman," Carter's voice echoed in the confined space. "Around four in the morning. Said he saw a flash of light in the alley, thought it was a drunk lighting his pipe, didn't pay it mind. Smelled it on his way back around six and came to check."
"A light?"
"Bluishwhite, the milkman said. Gone in a flash." Carter stopped and raised a hand. "Here."
******
Further in, the alley widened slightly, forming a shallow recess. The ground was littered with broken wooden crates, metal buckets, and the like—discarded scraps of daily life. This was an alleyway, not a designated rubbish channel.
And in the center of this recess, a woman lay on her back.
Anger took a breath in, and then let it out.
The woman appeared to be in her thirties. Her coat, cheap from the look of it, had been roughly torn open, revealing the slip beneath. A ragged, tearing wound ran across her abdomen—a fatal injury, extending from just below her chest down to her pelvis.
The edges of the wound were uneven, flesh splayed outward, with muscle tissue and the fat layer directly exposed to the air.
In an ordinary case, it would likely be filed away as just that. What stood out was the color of the wound’s edges: a charred black.
The surface seemed to have formed a thin, brittle crust. The charring spread outward in a mistlike pattern, coalescing into eerie markings on the skin.
“Has the medical examiner been?” Anger asked, his tone calmer than Carter had expected.
“The examiner?” Carter let out a dry laugh. “The old fellow drank himself to death a year ago. We only have an apprentice now. We’ll be lucky if he gets here by ten.”
He pulled out a pipe, glanced at the body again, and stuffed it back into his pocket. “I’ve taken a few photographs. But the fog’s too thick—they probably won’t be much use.”
Anger crouched down, opened his investigation kit, laid out his tools, and put on gloves, steadying himself.
He examined the ground. The mud held several sets of chaotic footprints. There were no clear signs of a struggle, no drag marks.
He lifted one of the deceased’s hands.
Gently turned her head, moved her hair aside.
Finally, he returned his focus to the shocking wound.
The pattern of the charring was strange. He kept staring at it.
Then, his vision distorted.
Beneath that layer of blackened, carbonized tissue, he saw golden lines.
A familiar throbbing started at Anger’s temples. He blinked. The phantom golden lines did not vanish.
“Hastings?”
Carter’s voice sounded distant, but when Anger’s focus returned, the man was standing just a meter away.
“You alright?” Carter stared at him, frowning.
“Fine,” Anger released the hand he was holding. “Low blood sugar.”
Carter clearly didn’t believe it but didn’t press. An East End detective had seen plenty of rookies retching at crime scenes. A palefaced Yard man wasn’t that unusual.
Anger crouched down again, checking the deceased’s clothing. In the pocket of her slip, his fingers brushed against something small and hard—a tarnished brass pocket watch. A worthless piece of junk to anyone else.
Anger held the watch up to the dim light. The lid was rusted shut. The crystal over the face was cracked. Both hands were frozen at the same position: 3:07.
Stolen content warning: this tale belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences elsewhere.
******
He flipped the pocket watch over. On the back was engraved a line of small text: “Precision Timing — Vinter Precision Industries.”
He closed the watch and placed it into another evidence bag.
“Find something?” Carter asked.
“The watch stopped at 3:07.” Anger stood up and scanned the surroundings. “I need to check a wider area.”
“Suit yourself.” Carter lit his pipe—he’d finally given in. “I’ll stay here with the body. Don’t go too far. This place isn’t safe even in daylight.”
As Anger passed him, he caught a whiff of bitterness in the smoke.
The alley curved about ten yards ahead, leading to a slightly wider back lane. Here, there was only more rubbish and a wooden crate.
Carter remained where he was, looking down as he smoked. “What’s this—”
He shifted his foot and found a raven feather. “Bloody bad luck,” he muttered, grinding the feather straight into the mud.
Anger stopped beside the crate. A coin lay halfembedded in the foul water.
Using tweezers, he lifted the coin for a closer look. This isn’t a penny—too light. And it’s not made of metal.
Still gloved, Anger picked up the coin directly. A chill immediately pierced through the leather. What in God’s name… The next moment, he flung it away.
“Oy—Hastings!” Carter’s footsteps hurried from the other end of the alley.
Anger shook his hand, marked the spot where the metal piece had landed, took out an evidence bag, and carefully tweezed the coinlike object into it.
Carter rushed into the back lane, truncheon already drawn. “What happened? Were you attacked?”
“No.” Anger sealed the evidence bag. “Tripped. Can’t see a damned thing in this place.”
Carter stared at him, slowly lowering his truncheon. “Told you. Let’s go. The coroner’s apprentice is here—halftrained, but better than nothing.”
Anger nodded and followed Carter back.
By the time they returned to the body, a lanky young man was already crouched beside it, fiddling with measuring tools.
“Time of death preliminarily between 3 and 4 a.m.,” the young man said without looking up. “Cause: open abdominal trauma leading to internal bleeding and organ failure. Weapon unknown—possibly some kind of serrated tool.”
“Not a tool,” Anger said.
The young coroner looked up, wideeyed. “What?”
“Look at the pattern. It spread from the inside out.”
The lad opened his mouth, then closed it again.
Carter blew out a plume of smoke. “You saying the killer used a machine? Some new weapon?”
“I don’t know. Go with your conclusion for now,” Anger said truthfully—after all, he wasn’t the coroner.
It was those golden threads. They couldn’t see them. And he couldn’t tell them.
******
The journal stirred restlessly in his pocket.
“I should look for other valuable clues nearby. ”Anger turned and walked out of the alleyway.
Victim: Martha Tabram.
Onsite Anomaly: Wound edges exhibit foglike charring.
Linked Clues: Signs of incomplete application of Edict 2.
Item Log: Brass pocket watch, anomalous metal coin.
Preliminary Deduction: The pocket watch manufacturer may be linked to the Vinter family. The metal coin's characteristics bear similarities to Edict 9.
Edict 2, Edict 9...
It felt like a black hole was waiting for Anger to fall into.
"Hastings." Carter's voice pulled him back to reality.
Anger snapped the journal shut and walked back to the scene.
"Well?" Carter asked.
"Nothing new," Anger said. "Can the body be moved?"
"Moved?" The young man looked up. "But I haven't written my report yet."
"Did you photograph the scene?"
"I did."
"That's enough then," Anger cut him off. "Take the body back to the morgue for a more detailed autopsy. What's in her stomach? Her blood? The composition of the wound?"
The young man looked at Carter. Carter nodded.
"Do as he says." He exhaled a puff of smoke. "We must show some respect for the Yard detective."
Ignoring the barb, Anger turned to Carter.
"The first discoverer, that milkman. I want to see him. Now."
"Now?"
"Now!"
Carter stared at him for a few seconds, then sighed, knocking his pipe against his boot heel.
"Follow me."
They walked out of the alley one after the other and climbed into the carriage waiting at the mouth of the alley. The driver, wrapped in a thick blanket, was dozing. Carter rapped on the window; the driver startled awake, rubbing his eyes.
"To Milk Alley," Carter said, pulling the carriage door open. "Quickly."
The carriage jolted along the muddy street. Anger leaned against the window, watching the outlines of buildings flash by in the fog.
"Ever seen a wound like that before?" Anger asked.
Carter, sitting opposite, was refilling his pipe.
"Seen slit throats. Seen stabbings. Seen heads bashed in." He tamped down the tobacco. "Haven't seen one burned from the inside. That's why you're here."
"Do you believe the milkman? About the light?"
Carter struck a match; the flame illuminated half his face.
"A hundred people in Whitechapel claim to see strange things every day." He took a drag. "Drunks see angels, addicts see demons, the desperate poor see gold in the cracks of walls. If you believed them all, you wouldn't be investigating cases. You'd be reporting directly to the asylum."
"But this milkman was sober."
"Sober?" Carter laughed. "Four in the morning, thick fog, a pitchblack alley—what sober man looks into an alley then?"
The carriage stopped.
Carter pushed the door open and jumped down. Anger followed. Carter walked to a door and knocked firmly.
The door opened a crack, revealing a wary eye.
"Police," Carter flashed his badge. "Looking for Wells."
The door opened wider. A gaunt middleaged man peeked out, wearing an apron stained with milk, holding an empty bottle.
Carter pushed past him and walked straight in. Anger followed.
The backyard was even smaller, piled with firewood and a broken chicken coop. A man sat on the woodpile, holding a bottle, tilting his head back for a large gulp.
"John Wells," Carter said.
The man turned. Seeing Carter, he shrank back. "I ain't done nothin' wrong."
"Nobody said you did." Carter walked up to him and crouched. "What did you see in the Whitechapel alley early this morning?"
Wells's bottle trembled in his hand.
"Light," he said, his voice low. "Bluewhite light. Gone in a flash."
"Where from?"
"That hollow spot in the alley."
"What kind of light?" Anger asked.
Wells looked up at Anger, his eyes unfocused.
"Like lightning, but no sound." He gestured clumsily. "Just one flash, then gone. I thought someone was lightin' a pipe."
"And then?"
"Then I left. Got milk to deliver." Wells raised the bottle halfway, then lowered it again. "Came back around six, smelled burnt meat... went to look, and then I saw her."
Anger crouched beside him, pulling the brass pocket watch from his pocket.
"Seen this before?"
Wells stared at the watch for a long time, then shook his head.
"No."
"Certain?"
Anger put the watch away and took out the evidence bag with the metal coin.
"How about this?"
Wells leaned in, squinting.
"This... looks a bit familiar."
Anger and Carter looked at him simultaneously.
"Where have you seen it?"
"Different alley. Last month, over in Red Brick Lane." Wells struggled to recall. "A fellow was sellin' these coins. Said they were charms. Could ward off bad luck."
"Who was selling?"
"Dunno. Wrapped in a black robe, couldn't see his face." Wells shook his head. "Just had a little stall. A cloth on the ground with a dozen or so of these coins. Asked a shillin' for 'em. Mad, a shillin' for this rubbish."
"Anyone buy?"
"Yeah." Wells said. "A woman bought one. Wore a red dress. Hair was red too. She paid, took the coin, and left."
Anger and Carter exchanged a glance.
"Remember what she looked like?" Carter asked.
"Nah. Fog was thick, and she wore a hat." Wells rubbed his temple. "But I remember her voice. Very soft. And she was hummin' a lullaby. Yeah, a lullaby."
Anger stood up, tore a page from his notebook, and wrote an address on it.
"If you remember anything else, or see that coin seller again," he shoved the paper into Wells's hand, "come find me here. Scotland Yard, Criminal Investigation Division, Section Two."
Wells clutched the paper and nodded, then genuinely took another swig from his bottle.
Carter patted his shoulder and said nothing more.
They walked out of the backyard, through the house, and back into the alley.
"What do you think?" Carter asked.
"Two leads," Anger said. "First, this metal coin isn't appearing for the first time."
"And the second?"
"Second, the woman who bought the coin." Anger looked toward the depths of the alley. "Red dress, red hair, humming a lullaby."
Carter was silent for a few seconds.
"You think she's connected to the case?"
"Don't know," Anger said honestly. "But a redhaired woman in Whitechapel, spending a shilling on a coin... what do you think?"
Carter didn't answer. He pulled out his pocket watch and glanced at it.
"Time to head back," he said. "The Superintendent wants a briefing this afternoon. About this case. What are you planning to say?"
Anger looked at him. "The truth."
Carter shook his head. "The truth, Detective Hastings? You sure you know what the truth is?"
He turned and walked towards the carriage. Anger stood still, hand slipping into his overcoat, thumb rubbing the cover of the journal.