Anger took the case notes. "That's it?"

  "For now. I trust you, Hastings — for the moment." Carter leaned back, the weariness etched deeper into his face. "These recent cases have shattered the peace Whitechapel once had, such as it was. Everything's here: the scene log, statements from the beat constables, the sparse testimonies from neighbours — anything we could pry loose. As for the apprentice surgeon's report…" He waved a dismissive hand. "Ah, never mind. See for yourself."

  Anger opened the file. The first page made his blood run cold.

  Name: Annie Chapman.

  As expected. He hadn't even had the chance to warn Carter to pay attention to the victims' names, and it had already happened.

  The next page contained a constable's statement.

  Q: Time of discovery?

  A: Around 5:40 AM. On patrol at the junction. Smelled something off. Saw a newsboy collapsed in the middle of the road. Went in and found her.

  Q: Anyone else at the scene?

  A: No. But I heard ravens. On the rooftops nearby. Lots of 'em. Too many. Felt wrong, the way they were clustered.

  Q: Wrong how?

  A: Like they were… speaking. Repeating a few syllables, but I couldn't understand them. When I looked up, they all took off at once.

  Q: Any other anomalies?

  A: Chains.

  Q: Chains?

  A: A faint, metallic jangling. Very light. But there was no one around. The sound came from deep in the alley. Thing is, sir… that's a dead end.

  Anger looked up at Carter. "The constable heard chains. Was this verified?"

  "Verified?" Carter gave a hollow laugh. "Hastings, this is Whitechapel. Every morning, vagrants drag scrap metal around. It's impossible to verify."

  "He was specific. Said it came from a deadend direction."

  "Maybe he misheard. Sound can bend, you know. Could've been cargo being loaded at the docks. Bloody noise is everywhere." Carter’s tone was one of forced pragmatism. He could only counter Anger’s questions with his own, more grounded understanding. These 'anomalies' might just be the same old things he encountered daily, albeit less frequently. Reluctant as he was to admit it, he had to steer things towards the mundane. Perhaps it really was all just… normal.

  Anger read on. The neighbours' accounts were vague: a woman's short, sharp cry that was quickly cut off. Most assumed it was just another drunkard's brawl.

  Next came the apprentice surgeon's report.

  Deceased female. Cause of death: large abdominal laceration, organs exposed. Both kidneys absent. Wound edges are neat, with signs of charring at the margins. Consistent with previous two cases.

  Note: Traces of black feather fibres extracted from under victim's fingernails. Preserved.

  "Both kidneys are missing," Anger said flatly. "The organs were taken."

  "Could've been dogs," Carter offered, not sounding convinced himself. "Some perpetrators mutilate the body afterwards. As for the innards… rats, stray dogs, feral cats — we've plenty in the East End. Strays will eat anything. Last year, a body turned up missing half an arm. We found the bones in a rubbish heap three streets over, picked clean."

  "Stray dogs don't leave such neat incisions." Anger flipped to the evidence photos. "And both kidneys vanishing simultaneously? Dogs aren't that discerning."

  Carter didn't argue. "Who's to say? Before the Parish carted her off, I had Perkins take as many photos as he could. Developing them will take time. Scotland Yard's darkroom is surely better than ours."

  Anger closed the file. "The newsboy. Where is he now?"

  "At the hospital. The constable saw the woman first, but got the boy to hospital immediately. His eyes are… gone. Face is a mess of blood and raven pecks. Clutching a few sheets of newspaper in his fist."

  "What did he say?"

  "Ravings. Not in the official record. Kept repeating: 'The ravens are talking. The chains are rattling. They're collecting a debt.' Doctors sedated him. He might be awake now. Or he might not be."

  Anger picked up his hat and put it on. "The hospital. Now."

  "Now?" Carter frowned. "The Parish just dragged the body off. The higherups are definitely watching. You, going to question a delirious newsboy now…"

  "He's the only witness we have at the moment. At least to the assault. And he was clutching newspapers. Maybe he saw something. Maybe he was trying to hold onto some kind of proof."

  "I'll take you," Carter conceded, standing up. "But don't get your hopes up. The boy's eyes are ruined. He's terrified out of his wits."

  ******

  The walls of the Whitechapel hospital were peeling in great swathes. Benches were crammed with groaning patients. A few nuns hurried past with medicine trays, their faces etched with exhaustion.

  Carter was clearly familiar with the place. He bypassed the front desk entirely.

  The ward was small. A thin boy lay flat on the bed, his entire head swathed in bandages, leaving only his nostrils and cracked lips exposed. An elderly woman sat on a chair by the bed. She started up nervously at the sight of Carter, her eyes already red and swollen.

  "Inspector Fellows..."

  "Madam. This is Inspector Hastings from the Central Office." Carter's tone was somewhat softer than it had been in the office. "He'd like to ask a few questions about this morning."

  The woman's lips trembled. "He can't see anything now. The doctor says both his eyes... those damned birds... He's been raving. They just gave him something."

  "We'll be quiet." Anger walked to the bedside, taking out his investigation log and pen, but didn't open it. He observed the room first.

  You might be reading a pirated copy. Look for the official release to support the author.

  The nightstand held hospital items. On the floor was a small, dark tuft.

  Anger crouched down and picked it up. A black feather.

  "This...?"

  The woman shook her head blankly. "I don't know. The nurse cleaned. She didn't mention this."

  Anger held the feather up to the window light. His eyes could make out faint, rustcoloured striations near the quill.

  "Did any of the birds that attacked the child leave carcasses?" he asked Carter.

  "A few were knocked down when the lad flailed with his newspapers. They're in the yard at the station. I had a constable bag them, meant for the apprentice surgeon when he had a moment."

  "Fetch them. Now." Anger carefully slipped the feather between the pages of his log. "This feather isn't from a local species."

  Carter hesitated, then said to the woman, "We'll be back shortly," and motioned for Anger to follow him out of the ward.

  "It's a feather, Hastings. There are thousands of ravens in the East End. Finding a stray one is about as remarkable as finding a puddle in the Thames."

  "I found black feathers at the second scene as well."

  "...Come to think of it, I believe I saw some at the first scene too. Martha Tabram's."

  "Why wasn't it reported?"

  "Report what? Should we bag up the dead rats from the gutter and send them to the lab for a postmortem while we're at it?" Carter thought Anger was being pedantic, obsessing over every minor detail. What kind of blighter investigates like this? he grumbled inwardly.

  "This isn't coincidence. These three cases are connected by the same... thing." Anger considered for a moment. "Have you heard of the BoneBird? I imagine you have."

  "The BoneBird Killer?" Carter's heart gave an unpleasant lurch.

  Both men fell into a simultaneous, heavy silence. Seeing the newsboy was still unconscious and unlikely to provide answers, Anger made a decision.

  "Let's head back. See if those birds show anything unusual."

  ******

  In the wooden crate in the backyard of the precinct lay the corpse of an adult raven. It was a size larger than the common crow, its neck already twisted, one wing broken, its skull dented—clearly struck by a heavy object.

  It seemed the newsboy had fought back with desperate strength. Probably not with just a newspaper, though. The force required to roll up a dozen or twenty sheets and deliver a blow strong enough for this would be considerable for even a grown man. How exactly it was struck wasn't something Anger needed to dwell on.

  He pulled on his gloves. The raven's wings were mottled with patches of a dark, reddish mist clinging to the surface. But the deepest color was concentrated at its beak.

  He pried the beak open directly.

  The inner walls and tip of the beak were studded with several granules of a dark red crystalline substance, their texture resembling coarse salt. He pinched one; it was exceptionally hard. He carefully extracted two granules, placing them in a glass dish.

  Under his sight, the crystals emitted a blackred aura, identical to the feather's but several times more intense. Within the aura, distorted lines even seemed to writhe.

  "Send this bird and these crystals to the Central Lab. And that feather. These could be crucial pieces of evidence."

  Carter stood leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed. "And how do you plan to write that in your report? 'The perpetrator may have used supernatural debt to drive ravens to attack a witness'?"

  "The anomalous physical properties of the crystals and feathers can serve as corroborating evidence. How it gets written depends on what your report says." Anger placed the raven's corpse into an evidence bag. "I must consider the possibility of preternatural factors. The wound characteristics and the anomalies at the scenes of these three cases no longer fit any known criminal pattern."

  "The Parish won't care for words like 'preternatural'."

  "I'm a detective. The Parish is not my jurisdiction. The truth doesn't change based on who likes it or not."

  "Hastings," Carter's voice was low, "in Whitechapel, the truth is the cheapest commodity there is. I make the people who need to shut up, shut up. I make the people who need paying, get paid. I make the numbers and conclusions on the report add up. Getting you involved was just to put a better sheen on your record, that's all."

  Anger zipped up the evidence bag, not wanting to debate him further. After all, the man had saved him once. He asked the question that had been nagging him. "You knew these cases were off from the start, yet you still requested support from the Central Office. Why? If you really just wanted to sweep this under the rug, you never would have filed the report. You could have downplayed the situation, made it seem lighter. There was no need to bring in people from the Central Office."

  Carter's expression darkened. "Think what you will. I'll call for a wagon to send these damned things to the Central Office."

  The preliminary lab report came back at 4:00 PM. The results were disquieting.

  The Central Office's report was written with deliberate vagueness, full of terms like 'unknown' and 'indeterminate'.

  Anger, having followed the wagon back to Scotland Yard, now sat at his own desk. He had brought back copies of all materials and reports from the three cases and began drafting a preliminary investigative report.

  He strove to use precise, professional language to summarize the common characteristics of the three cases, list the anomalies, and propose initial inferences. In the final section, he outlined suggestions for further investigative directions.

  ******

  Prior to this, Chief Schneider had received a phone call.

  "Yes, Your Grace. We understand completely. Of course, of course. We naturally defer to the Parish's judgment. The investigation will be kept within reasonable bounds. Yes, yes. We'll avoid causing unnecessary panic."

  The call ended.

  Three cases in a row. Anger had to submit this report to Headquarters. Schneider remained firmly planted in his chair, casually picking up the report Anger handed over.

  Raven attacks. Anomalous crystals. Suggests consulting Royal Society experts...

  He leaned back, balancing his chair on its rear legs. "Inspector Hastings. Do you have any idea how much trouble this report would cause if it went up the chain? The Church has just made its position perfectly clear. These cases are the work of demonicallyinfluenced deviants. They took the bodies for purification precisely to prevent contamination. Your proposal of these... unverified 'anomalous material' theories is tantamount to questioning the Parish's authoritative judgment."

  "Chief, these are objective facts uncovered during the investigation. The lab report will corroborate them later."

  "Unnecessary." Schneider rocked forward, placing his hands over his stomach. "Inspector Hastings, your duty is to solve cases. Not to create bigger problems. The Church has set the narrative. These Whitechapel murders have scared off half the East End's nightshift workers. The docks and factories are complaining about falling productivity. So the Commission is also pushing for a swift conclusion. What we need now is to restore order, and make the public feel safe. How do you expect me to account for all these inexplicable mysteries you're throwing about?"

  Anger stood before the Chief's desk. Schneider's eyes darted rapidly before he let out a long sigh.

  "Alright then. I'll take the report. But you need to revise it. Remove all mentions of anomalies and ambiguities. As for suggested lines of inquiry, limit it to hate crime and possible cult activity. That's the best we can do for now."

  "That's asking me to falsify evidence."

  "No, no. This is about maintaining the credibility of the police apparatus. If the public learns we can't describe the wounds, that everyone involved is spouting blasphemous ravings, that we can't even explain a few ravens and some crystals... will they still believe we can catch the killer?"

  "Hastings, you are an excellent detective. But you must understand that within the system, one must obey the system's rules. What Headquarters desires is stability for the entire Empire, not individual heroics. The pressure from the Church and the Commission has landed. This case must be closed as the work of a human criminal. It cannot be tied to any supernatural, uncontrollable elements. That is a red line."

  "And if the killer truly isn't human? What if these events conceal a far greater danger?"

  "Then we deal with it when the danger truly manifests. When it makes a big enough mess that those above are forced to take notice." Schneider clearly hoped Anger would pragmatically accept his suggestion. "Right now, it's just three dead prostitutes in the East End and a newsboy who lost his eyes. It's not worth us overturning the table for."

  Anger watched as Schneider took a pen and began striking out line after line on his report.

  "Revise it according to this. Bring it to me tomorrow. Leave the rest to the Parish. If you find yourself unable to put pen to paper, I can have Miller do it. I'm sure he'd be happy to take over your case."

  Anger retrieved the report and left the Chief's office without another word.

  Schneider was pressuring him, using Miller as leverage. An effective tactic, as having his case reassigned midstream was unthinkable. It would ruin his standing at the Yard. So, it worked.

  Anger tossed the report to Hendrick, instructing him to rewrite it. Though not extensively educated, Hendrick had picked up the basics over the years from various sources and environments. Basic descriptive writing was no issue. If this report was destined not to be Anger's definitive account of the murders, then who wrote it hardly mattered. As long as Hendrick produced a version of the case, that was enough. If the truth no longer mattered, then whether Anger himself penned it was no longer essential.

  Later, Anger called out a familiar name once more.

  "Hendrick."