Carter Fellows pushed open the door at three in the afternoon.
"The Parish Cleansing Crew swept the scene. Told us to handle the paperwork ourselves." He didn't look up as he spoke, busy organizing the blackandwhite photographs from the crime scene.
"The quality was lamentable, yet serviceable." Mary Ann Nichols, fortytwo. Another Whitechapel working woman. Time of death estimated between two and four in the morning.
"Four separate witnesses, all within a similar timeframe. They'll need questioning."
Carter poured himself a whisky and drained it in one go. "A drunkard, a nightshift worker, and two prostitutes fresh from the brothel. Frankly, whose testimonies would be questionable even on the subject of their own breakfast."
He walked instead to the iron cabinet in the corner and pulled out a sheaf of documents. "Supplemental report on Martha Tabram. I didn't show you this yesterday. It'll likely be closed soon too."
Anger took the file and flipped through it. It contained nothing substantial—just the usual bureaucratic chaff. He decided a return to the scene was necessary.
Arriving alone at the location, Anger found it had been thoroughly sanitized by the Parish. A layer of greyishwhite powder—a mixture of sanctified salt and lime for purifying the unclean—was scattered over the ground. A familiar sight from many of his past 'anomaly' cases.
He crouched at the spot where the body had been found. Faint golden light lingered in the soil—residue the Church couldn't simply erase. Without his altered sight, there truly would have been nothing.
The tiny reflective particles from the morning's sewage runoff were gone, cleaned away. However, further from the body's original position, near a corner of the wall, some granules remained. He walked over and ran his fingers over the brick surface.
He took out the evidence bag containing the few particles collected that morning. A comparison confirmed they were identical. This was decidedly out of place; Whitechapel had no metalworking factories.
The diary presented a new entry:
Victim: Mary Ann Nichols
Scene Anomaly: Phantom Scales & Golden Grid Framework
Linked Clue: Full application of Edict 2
Item Log: Anomalous Metallic Particles
Initial Hypothesis: The perpetrator demonstrates more stable mastery over Edict 2. The extraction process involves Edict 3. Organs likely intended for ritual use.
The current frontispiece now visibly listed Edict 2, Edict 3, and Edict 10.
Edict 2: A name heard becomes a shackle, flesh its anchor.
Edict 3: When the scales shatter, shards burn the hand that held them.
Edict 9:Debts unpaid gnaw the bone like maggots, unsleeping.
Edict 10: Where old agony is carved, the present wears the past like a shroud.
Anger pondered, piecing together a rough analysis. Edict 3 had manifested once during the Viper's strangulation of the BoneBird killer—likely referring to the 'anomaly' itself. Edict 2 concerned names—'nomen'. So the killer knew the victim's name. As for Edict 10, that was linked to the historical remnant of Greffin witnessed at the Mute Tower.
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The notes also mentioned Edict 9. The real headache now was: Just how many Edicts were there? Why did they exist? And how many more secrets did this notebook hold?
Anger continued searching the scene for possible clues. Nothing further revealed itself, save for a single crow's feather on the ground, trampled beyond recognition by countless boots. Anger gave it only a passing glance before leaving.
******
Upon returning to the Whitechapel station, Anger had Carter accompany him to question the witnesses.
The fourth witness was a nightshift dockworker.
"Describe what you saw," Anger prompted the laborer.
"A brass scale… floating in the air," the dockworker began, gesturing at waist height. "About this high off the ground. Something dark was moving in the left pan. The right one was empty. Then the whole thing started to tilt. The left side sank down, the right side shot up…"
Suddenly, the man—Weller—clapped his hands over his ears, his body beginning to tremble.
"What's wrong?" Carter pressed a hand on his shoulder.
"Bells!" the dockworker shrieked. "Huge bells, ringing from inside that scale! My ears are still ringing!"
Anger and Carter exchanged a glance. None of the other witnesses had mentioned bells.
"Anything else?" Anger asked, softening his tone. "Anyone else around?"
The dockworker steadied himself. "Yes… A woman. Standing at the other end of the alley, far from the scale. Red hair. Singing a lullaby."
"Red hair," Anger repeated. "The lyrics? What was she doing?"
"Couldn't make them out. She was walking away, still humming that tune… then she was gone."
Anger made a quick note. "Can you describe her? Age? Clothing?"
"Couldn't see her face. Petite. Skinny."
Leaving the dockworker's basement lodgings and emerging back onto the street, Carter broke the silence.
"A redhaired woman," he said, lighting his pipe. "The first case had a witness mention a lullaby singer too."
"I know," Anger replied. "We still need to find her."
"Why?" Carter exhaled a plume of smoke. "She's likely just a madwoman. No woman kills and then strolls off humming a lullaby."
"About that old Samuel you mentioned last time," Anger said, changing the subject. "I need to see him."
******
Old Samuel's stall was tucked beneath a stone bridge. Anger made his way there alone.
DustCoins. Anger picked one up. Like the others, it was shrouded in that murky crimson haze.
"How much?" Anger asked.
"A shilling a piece," Old Samuel said quickly. "Give me a clean shilling, and I give you the dustcoin that bears your misfortune. Toss it in the Thames, or bury it at a crossroads. Your bad luck flows away with the coin."
"How terribly thoughtful," Anger said, setting the coin down. "Anyone else bought these recently?"
"So many folk come and go, sir. My memory's not what it was."
Anger pulled two shillings from his pocket. "How about now?"
Old Samuel snatched the coins. "Aye… About a week back. A woman bought one. I asked what she sought. Said her son was dying."
"Name?"
"She didn't give one."
"Where does she live?"
Old Samuel shook his head. "Don't know. But she mentioned the fish market. Might work nearby."
Anger added another shilling to the table. "What else did she say?"
The old man stared at the coin, licking his lips. "Said… 'If this doesn't work, there's only one way left.' I asked what way. She didn't answer. Just touched her hair, muttering… 'It's all the red hair's fault.'"
"And these coins? Where do you get your supply?"
"Sir, I'm just a humble trader—"
"You're not," Anger cut in, fixing him with a stare. "These are… particular. A friend of mine has studied such things. A Professor. Says they carry a curse."
"I don't know what you're talking about."
"He's a respected man. A scholar. I believe him. A street hawker or a Professor? I know whom to trust. He said anyone peddling these ought to be reported. That they're harmful. If I stroll to the station now and tell the Chief Inspector a Professor declares these illomened, and with the recent… unpleasantness in Whitechapel… What do you suppose the Chief would do?"
Anger decided on the threat. It was a copper's tool, not exactly genteel, but effective.
"So. Tell me everything you know about the redhaired woman and where these coins come from. I'll forget this little business."
"Guv'nor, it's not that I won't tell you. I truly don't know much. The other trinkets are my stock, honest. But these coins… Someone paid upfront for me to sell 'em. It's just a bit of business. They said I get half if they sell. Taught me the patter. Didn't let me ask questions."
"What did they look like? Not a blackhatted gentleman, by chance?" Anger pressed.
"No gentleman, sir. They used children. Street urchins to drop the parcels off."
Children. So, their supplier was cautious.
Old Samuel added a final flourish. "They only said to push 'em on folks who looked down on their luck. Today, you asked, see? Otherwise, I'd never have offered them to a gent like you. Since you say they're cursed… business is over, sir."
Anger studied the old man. His feet were unsteady, his movements frail. But his tongue was remarkably agile.
"I'll believe you this once. But keep selling them. I don't care about that. Just tell me who buys. Get more details next time. Understood?"
"Understood, perfectly! Perhaps… pick something else? On the house?"
"I have no use for your wares," Anger said, giving him a final glare before turning to leave.
Returning to the station, Anger overheard the murmurs already taking shape: talk that the killer might be a surgeon. Or a butcher. It would only make the hunt harder.