Anger sat in the carriage on his way back to Scotland Yard, opening his notebook:

  [ E.I.C. Crate No. 7743 / Missing Persons / Handling Noble Bloodstains.]

  Before leaving, he had told Hendrick to stay behind and look into the information on the note, adding:"Stay the night if needed. Anything you don’t understand, ask Karter—I’ve told him to assist you. Take a carriage back; I’ll cover the fare."

  Hendrick watched the carriage disappear into the fog, staring at the note for a moment.

  After getting confirmation from Karter, he began rifling through the drawers of the East End archives for the preliminary missing persons reports from the last three months.

  He crouched down, flipping through the files quickly.

  His memory was good—not quite photographic, despite the exaggerated version circulating around the station—but good enough.

  On the 15th of last month, a laundry woman’s daughter had gone missing in the East End. The report was filed by a neighbour. The record stated: Presumed elopement. Girl is fourteen.

  Elopement.

  Hendrick’s finger stopped on the page.

  He pulled out the file. The writing was scrawled—the beat constable clearly hadn’t taken it seriously. [Mother: Annor Green, laundress. Claims daughter Emily missing since night before last. Neighbour suggests possible elopement with beau. No further investigative value.]

  But the mother insisted her daughter wouldn’t run off. She’d also mentioned threats from the owner of the “Soap Moon” workshop.

  Missing persons cases involving commercial secrets meant Industrial Commission records.

  The Yard and the Commission had a datasharing agreement, but chemical purchases were classified.All Hendrick could access were the public annual reports. Even if the Yard could dig deeper, whatever they found would likely only be what the Commission was willing to provide.

  Hendrick walked over to a relatively advanced piece of equipment the precinct had acquired three years ago—now gathering a fine layer of dust. Karter had only said, If you know how to use it, be my guest.

  He pulled off the dust cover and pressed the power button.

  The machine whirred to life, gears turning slowly, the screen gradually brightening.

  Hendrick entered the query, typing with a sense of urgency—a habit picked up over years working with Inspector Anger.

  As he waited for the results, he unconsciously bit his lower lip.

  Inspector Anger had told him once, Don’t bite your lip, Hendrick. It makes you look like a boy who’s been caught out. He’d tried to break the habit, with only partial success.

  The screen flickered. Data scrolled into view—all public information.

  Imports of Cinchona bark from the Southern Reaches by the United Chemical Company (subsidiary of the Industrial Commission) had increased by a certain percentage in the first half of the year. Purchases of specialty grease, classification code TX7, were up yearonyear by another figure.

  He copied the data down, pencil scratching against paper.When he reached TX7, he paused. He’d seen that classification code somewhere before.

  The orphanage.

  St. LunarMark’s Shelter—where he’d grown up. It was called LunarMark Orphanage now.

  The year he left, the new matron had brought in a donation of supplies. The boxes were stamped with codes beginning with TX. When the children asked what they were, the attendant said, Nutrients. To make you stronger.

  If you discover this narrative on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the violation.

  Nutrients.

  Hendrick suddenly felt a chill.

  The archive window wasn’t fully closed. Fog seeped through the gap. He went over and shut it.

  Outside, the city was stirring from its fogdrenched slumber: carriages, newsboys, factories. Hendrick watched the blurred figures in the mist—workers hurrying on their way, housewives with market baskets, gentlemen in top hats.

  Do they know? he wondered. How many in this city sleep uneasily?

  ******

  Back alley of an East End tavern, 10 AM

  Hendrick took off his uniform coat—it made him too conspicuous. The thing made him look like an errand boy or some small merchant's son.

  The tavern's back door was ajar, releasing the sour smell of ale.

  Hendrick took a deep breath and pushed inside.

  A few oil lamps cast swaying shadows on the walls. Several men were gathered around a corner table playing cards, coins clinking. An old sailor sat by the bar, peeling an apple with a small knife, the skin falling in one long, unbroken spiral.

  Hendrick approached the bar.

  The barkeep was wiping a glass with a dirty rag.

  He glanced up at Hendrick. "Don't serve minors."

  "I'm not—" Hendrick cleared his throat. "I'm here to ask about something."

  The barkeep snorted. "Askin' questions in the wrong place, lad."

  "About the Soap Moon workshop," Hendrick said quickly. "And people going missing nearby."

  The old sailor by the bar stopped peeling. The knife tip hovered. The barkeep's rag stilled.

  He stared at Hendrick, his eyes shifting from indifference to something else entirely. "Who sent you?"

  "No one," Hendrick lied. "My sister. She worked over there. Haven't heard from her lately. Mum told me to ask."

  The barkeep set the glass down.

  "Listen, boy," he leaned in, his head looming over Hendrick. "You don't ask about the Soap Moon. You see that red liquid they keep aside?" He gave a cold laugh. "It's blood, you think it's some newfangled dye?"

  The card players in the corner fell silent. No more flipping cards, no more clinking coins.

  "Whose blood?" Hendrick whispered.

  "Whose blood?" the barkeep said, as if telling a joke. "Noble blood, poor man's blood, woman's blood... what's the bleedin' difference? It's all red when it comes out." He straightened up. "But the Soap Moon can wash it clean. Snowwhite. Pressed neat. Sent back to those lords' manors so they can wear it to their parties, their dances, do their shady business."

  The old sailor resumed peeling. The apple skin dangled, growing longer, almost touching the floor.

  "As for people goin' missin'," the barkeep lowered his voice, "people go missin' in the East End every day. Women, children, old folks. The fog's this thick, the river's that close. Who notices one less?"

  He leaned in again. "But if you're askin' about the young, pretty ones with the good hips... heh." He paused.

  Hendrick waited.

  The barkeep made a soundless laugh. "They go missin' into beds. That kind of 'missin' ain't police business. Nor God's." He straightened up. "Right. Piss off. Don't come askin' again."

  Hendrick didn't move.

  "One more thing," he said. "E.I.C. The East India Company. Are they mixed up in this?"

  That was not a question for a young lad’s mouth. Had he not had his fill of living?

  Even the sound of the old sailor's peeling stopped.

  All expression vanished from the barkeep's face.

  "Get out."

  "I just—"

  "Out." This time with weight.

  The card players stood up. Chair legs scraped against the floor with a harsh, dragging sound.

  Hendrick took a step back.

  He turned and hurried towards the door. The barkeep's voice came from behind, not loud:

  "Tell whoever's behind you—be it the police, a reporter, or some daft herowannabe—the water under the Soap Moon runs deep. Leads to the sea, to the ocean."

  Hendrick pushed the door open, plunged into the fog, and ran. He didn't stop until he reached the main road, leaning against a lamppost, gasping for breath. After a good while, he started walking towards the docks.

  ******

  Location: Scotland Yard Office

  Anger was deep in thought, hoping Hendrick would bring back some useful information.

  His colleague, Miller, walked past and dropped a line: "The Chief is waiting for your report."

  When Anger pushed open the door to the Chief's office, the first thing he heard was: "Fortyeight hours are up, Inspector Hastings."

  "Your briefing on the Lady's case," Schneider turned around. "You have five minutes."

  Anger opened the case file. Unlike his usual self, his movements were rough.

  "Time of death, Thursday midnight to two AM. Location... Preliminary autopsy indicates..."

  Schneider picked up a bone china teacup and took a sip.

  "So, the conclusion, Hastings?"He set down the teacup.

  "Current evidence points to suicide, but motive is unclear. The source of the arsenic is unverified. The medical explanation for cardiac fibrosis requires—"

  "Alright."

  The Chief stood up, his shadow blocking the light from the fireplace. He walked around the desk to stand before Anger, reached out, and snapped the file shut himself.

  "Suicide. Case closed."He offered no room for discussion."This afternoon at three, the Lady Vinter's funeral at St. Mary's. You will attend on behalf of the Yard."

  "Chief, there are still unanswered—"

  "Unanswered?" Schneider's face twitched, muscles nearly cramping. "Inspector, do you have any idea how many people take their own lives in this city every day?"

  "The fortyeighthour rule is the rule. The time's up, the case is over. The rest is the Viscount's family affair. Our job is to maintain order in this city, not to pick at scabs that have already healed. "

  "Understood."Anger couldn't pull off Old Morgan's approach. He didn't have the leverage to demand a full, forced investigation like the oldtimer might.

  "Fine. After the funeral, all evidence is to be transferred to the archives. That's an order."