When Anger arrived at the East End Division, Bishop Morris was already waiting for him.

  "I heard you assisted with the initial investigation at the Sunken Bell Priory."

  "Just doing my part. The scene was… unusual, certainly. But this is Carter's patch. I respect the local choice."

  "Unusual, yes. Which is why the Diocese has decided to take over the matter personally. Those poor sisters… may they rest. Their remains require proper rites before interment."

  Bishop Morris finally reached into his robes and drew out a veil. Anger recognized it at once—the very same curious item from the Viscountess's funeral.

  "Detective Hastings," the Bishop's expression was suitably mournful, seemingly grieving for the sisters' fate. Yet, his tone shifted. "The incident at the Priory involves… archaic spiritual contaminations. Those who visited the scene can sometimes unknowingly carry residual taint. Out of concern for your personal wellbeing, the Diocese would like to offer you a purification rite."

  "A purification rite? I'm a policeman. I believe in evidence and truth."

  Anger feigned confusion and adopted a tactfully reluctant stance. He knew an outright, defiant refusal wasn't wise, but he offered reasonable grounds. As for the last time at the funeral, it had no effect on him. Anger was willing to gamble on that again.

  "It is merely a brief liturgy," Morris pressed, "accompanied by the aspersion of holy water. A few verses chanted. Many officers who have dealt with similar incidents have accepted it. We cannot guarantee the absence of unknown malevolent influences. I strongly advise you to undergo the rite as well."

  Down the corridor, the door to Inspector Carter's office swung fully open. Carter emerged, followed by two blackclad Church scribes.

  Carter didn't look at Anger, but nodded to the Bishop. "The documents are signed, Your Grace."

  The two scribes took up positions on either side of the corridor.

  Anger looked at the Bishop. "If it's beneficial for the work… I accept."

  "May the Lord shelter you." He began fitting the veil over his face, the translucent gauze grid obscuring his features. From his sleeve, he produced a small silver vial and a shorthandled aspergillum, his movements practiced as he commenced the rite.

  "Close your eyes, Detective."

  Anger closed his eyes, but his own peculiar sight could perceive the veil's aura clearly. He just needed to ensure the Bishop truly activated the artefact's power. Then, he could perform.

  "You may open them, Detective."

  Anger opened his eyes, allowing his expression to seem slightly unfocused, then clearing as if coming back to himself. He looked at the Bishop with a touch of bewilderment. "Is it over?"

  Morris studied his face intently. "How do you feel?"

  Anger frowned, as if straining to recall. "Thank you. I suppose I should get back to work."

  "Morris? Those sisters?"

  Anger paused for a longer beat. "Sisters…?" He shook his head. "I'm sorry, Your Grace. I haven't seen any sisters. I came to Whitechapel to assist Carter with some… anomalous cases."

  Morris watched Anger closely for several seconds. Anger maintained his breathing rhythm. Precisely because he had been subjected to a similar erasure at the Viscountess's funeral with no effect, Morris had little reason for deep suspicion now. To the Bishop, this detective was likely just another minor policeman dabbling with a reputation for the 'uncanny'.

  In a city like Londinium with so many heretical incidents, his methods had never failed before. A mere detective would be child's play.

  "That will suffice." The Bishop stowed the vial and aspergillum. "Thank you for your cooperation, Detective Hastings. The Diocese will handle the rest, allowing the case to be closed. It was, after all, merely a minor matter of stray dogs found at the priory. Inspector Carter will provide you with the official paperwork."

  Ensure your favorite authors get the support they deserve. Read this novel on Royal Road.

  He turned to Carter, exchanged a few low words, and departed with the two scribes in tow.

  Carter walked up to Anger, holding two files. He handed over the first folder. "Draft closure report. Have a look and sign if it's in order."

  Anger took the file and signed without reading—a report about discovering animal remains (stray dogs) at the priory, notifying the Church, and finding nothing amiss.

  "The other is for Martha Tabram's case," Carter said. "My men are handling the followup. The paperwork is ready for archival. We'll deal with that later."

  Seeing Anger's nod, Carter felt a sliver of relief. Perhaps with this troublesome figure gone, Whitechapel could finally have some peace.

  ******

  Anger had merely been paying a visit to the old police station. After all, he was a detective from the West End, and though attached to the Central Yard, it wouldn't do for him to be seen loitering about indefinitely. No sooner had his back turned than Constable Perkins at the East End station burst into Inspector Carter's office once more, in a fresh state of panic.

  "Guv'nor! Aanother one!" Perkins's voice cracked like a dropped plate, his eyes wide with alarm.

  Carter's heart sank. The small measure of ease he had managed to scrape together evaporated instantly. "Shut your gob! Get in here and close the door!" he bellowed.

  Perkins scrambled to obey, fumbling with the door. "It's… it's near Whitechapel again. Mary Ann Nichols. The lads on scene… they can't make head nor tail of it. You'd best come, sir."

  "The lads?" Carter stood, snatching his greatcoat from the back of his chair.

  "The two what got there first," Perkins panted, still trying to catch his breath. "They say it's not… right. Said it's proper queer."

  Carter shrugged into his coat and strode up to Perkins. "Listen. This stays with us. The East End handles its own."

  "What about that Detective Hastings from the Yard? Shouldn't we notify 'im?"

  "He just left," Carter cut him off sharply. "He's got his peculiar cases, and we've got our ordinary ones. Whitechapel has its own way of doing things. We don't need outsiders muddying the waters, especially not Yard men. They don't understand the currents here — they'd only stir up the silt. You keep your mouth shut. Don't breathe a word to anyone, and especially don't go running to tell him on your own hook. Understood?"

  Perkins looked somewhat baffled, but the force of Carter's manner cowed him. He simply bobbed his head in acknowledgement. Best to let sleeping dogs lie, and let Whitechapel's secrets keep their own company.

  ******

  A lane even filthier than the one where Martha Tabram was found.

  The two officers who had arrived first were already posted at the entrance, their faces ghastly pale. Only when they saw Carter did they seem to exhale in relief, quickly moving toward him.

  “Inside, guv.” One of the constables pointed deeper into the alley. “We didn’t dare stay long.”

  Carter patted his shoulder and walked in alone, his brow knotted. Bloody peace never lasts a full day.

  The body lay sprawled between sewage and refuse—again, a woman, her death brutal enough on its own. But that wasn’t what held Carter’s gaze.

  About a man’s height above the corpse hung a shimmering, insubstantial outline—a contorted brass scale. Carter saw it clearly. He glanced back at the two officers, seeking confirmation with his eyes. They nodded.

  This… this is pitching Whitechapel into the abyss. Why can’t things just stay quiet? Why must someone stage their filthy rituals right here?

  Hastings had been right after all—the killer was definitely trying something.

  The scale wasn’t physical, only a luminous silhouette, yet its outline remained sharp. Its frame stood crooked, its two pans hanging empty. The beam connecting them swayed slowly up and down.

  That unsettling feeling from the Martha case now erupted fully here.

  “Blighter.”

  His first instinct was to step back—to handle this as he always had: suppress it, conceal it, make it disappear from memory.

  But the hovering brass scale paid no heed to his discomfort. It seared into his retina, moment by moment.

  He’d seen plenty of death—natural, deliberate, brutal—but never a mark so clearly not of this world.

  This thing was utterly, completely beyond what he could handle. It even breached the boundaries of what he could comprehend.

  And what worried him most—what if this wasn’t the last time?

  ******

  Carter remained standing. He had no intention of examining the scene, only the desperate hope that the phantasm would vanish. But after standing for a while, before the apparition disappeared, he abruptly turned and broke into a jog, rushing back towards the mouth of the alley.

  Perkins was startled by Carter for the first time, nearly colliding with him.

  "Perkins. Go. Find that damned Hastings from the Yard."

  "But... sir, didn't you just say—" Perkins was flummoxed.

  "What I said just now was horseshit!" Carter barked. "Go find him! Now!"

  "Where to? The Yard?"

  "He—" Carter then remembered Anger hadn't specified his destination when he left. "Find him. Start by calling the Yard. If Anger Hastings has returned, get him over here immediately."

  Move & Countermove

  An operational directive is issued. The predicament escalates. Seeking external, unconventional aid becomes the unavoidable choice.

  Watching Perkins's back as he scurried away in a panic, Carter turned his gaze back down the alley's depths. The phantasm of the brass scales hung there, unnervingly placid.

  In the end, he hadn't truly managed to send that particular spectre packing after all.