A typical tragedy of the slums, the clerk from Whitechapel Division murmured.

  Martha's case. Anger couldn't write the rest. He had accompanied Carter to brief the Division. Too much remained to be investigated. The case couldn't be closed.

  He took a carriage back to Scotland Yard.

  The constable at the gate saw him return and said, well, Watson is already waiting for you.

  "Hastings! "Watson called out upon hearing him from a distance. "I thought you'd be keeping company with those maggotridden corpses in Whitechapel until midnight."

  "The report is done?" Anger took off his overcoat and hung it on the hook behind the door.

  Watson set down his forceps and pulled two manila folders from a drawer. One was thin, stamped with the standard police archive number on its cover. The other was nearly three times thicker.

  "This one's for the superiors. "He tapped the thin folder with a fingertip. "Cause of death: acute arsenic poisoning. No signs of forced entry. Preliminary ruling: suicide or accidental ingestion. Perhaps just... stress."

  Anger didn't reach for the thin report.

  "And the other one?"

  A faint smile tugged at Watson's mouth. He slid the thick folder over."I'd rather not find myself on the front page of some newspaper because of this report. Might cost me my pension."

  Anger opened the folder.

  The first page was the autopsy record.

  The second page held handdrawn diagrams. A crosssection of the Viscountess's heart, several areas of abnormal thickening marked.A tiny note in the margin read: "Tissue exhibits abnormal vitality. Retained weak response to electrical stimulus postmortem. Not a known biological phenomenon."

  He turned the page.

  "Under 'Analysis of Nail Residue," Watson had circled 'arsenic' in red ink, annotating: "Consistent with chronic, lowdose exposure. However, final dose sufficient to be lethal."

  There was an enlarged photograph of finger injuries. Transverse cuts on the Viscountess's right index and middle fingers.A question mark was drawn beside it, with a line of text: "Possible abrasions from fibrous material – repeated friction against a coarse cord or thread in a state of agitation."

  Then, the most crucial page: "Analysis of Anomalous Substances on Garments and Body Surface."

  Watson had sketched several rudimentary molecular structures in pen, surrounded by dense scribbles of chemical formulae and conjecture.But the conclusion was summed up in one sentence: "Similarities observed with extracts of Cinchona bark."

  The remaining pages contained reports on the mycelium and blood samples.

  Anger looked up. Watson was cleaning his fingers with an ethanolsoaked cotton ball.

  "What's your take? "Anger asked.

  "I'm not a detective"Watson said, tossing the cotton into a waste bin. "I provide facts. If you want speculation... "

  He paused, glancing at Anger. ..."the things this lady was exposed to before her death go far beyond the usual scope of our little laboratory here. That silver mycelium? I sent a minuscule sample to a... friend at the Royal Society. Someone who studies the less conventional. His reply was one sentence: Cease investigation immediately. Destroy all samples."

  "Did you destroy it?"

  "Of course not. "Watson pulled open another drawer. "But I didn't tell him I kept it either. Scientific spirit, and all that. The truth is more important than safety. Other people's safety, naturally."

  Anger looked back down at the report.

  "You're looking a bit peaky,"Watson's voice came. "Need smelling salts? I have some freshly... recovered from a fainting Duchess."

  "No." Anger took a deep breath. "I'll take the report. And the fabric sample with the grease stain? The photos of the mycelium. Can I borrow them?"

  "Already inside." Watson pointed at the folder,"Do be careful. I treated the fabric, but one never knows if such things might decide to crawl out of your drawer at midnight."

  "Watson," Anger asked as he stood up, "ever seen a leaf like this? "

  He pulled a withered, silvery leaf from his pocket and handed it over.

  Watson took it with his forceps, held it up to the light for a moment, and handed it back.

  "Can't say I have. A friend collects specimens. Made me wonder if you had any expertise."

  "No. I'm a pathologist, not a botanist. You might ask around, find someone who specializes in such... curiosities."

  Getting no answers from the pathologist, he didn't dwell on it. In truth, this dried leaf had been pressed inside the Viscountess's diary as a final specimen. He was just asking on a whim.

  ******

  When Anger returned to his office cubicle, Hendrick was already waiting for him. The young man was tapping his fingers nervously against the edge of the desk and nearly jumped out of his seat upon seeing Anger.

  "Detective! You're back!"

  "Sit, Hendrick." Anger locked Watson's folder into his desk drawer. "What did you find?"

  Hendrick pulled out his notebook and flipped it open.

  "The Viscountess's everyday clothes were laundered by the house maids, but her haute couture garments were all sent to a specialist laundry." He lowered his voice. "Not a normal laundry, sir. It's one of those private vault laundries. Serves only specific families, location isn't public, prices are astronomically high."

  Anger slipped his fingers into his coat pocket, touching the note he had picked up earlier. 'The laundry's secret needs washing.' What secret needed washing?

  "Name. Address."

  Hendrick's face flushed slightly. "Cost me two shillons from a coachman. Got a name: 'The Blood Moon Soap Kettle'."

  The Blood Moon Soap Kettle.

  This narrative has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road. If you see it on Amazon, please report it.

  Anger's voice remained steady. "Address?"

  "The scullery maid didn't know. But he gave a lead: the coachman who collects the garments works for a cleaning company owned by the Vinter family. I checked the company's registered address; it's near the docks in the East End. But that's just a front office. The actual laundry must be somewhere more... discreet."

  Hendrick leaned in closer. "Detective, what's our next move? Apply for a warrant? But the laundry is likely on private property. Without solid evidence, a judge won't sign off."

  "No," Anger said. "We don't raid it."

  He stood up and walked to the office window, looking out at the street.

  "We go into business."

  Hendrick blinked. "Business?"

  "You said the 'Blood Moon Soap Kettle' is exclusive, not open to the public." Anger watched the pedestrians passing by in the fog. "But if a fabric supplier from the North came to discuss a potential collaboration, would the laundry's manager refuse a meeting?"

  Hendrick's eyes lit up.

  "I need an identity," Anger said, putting on his coat. "Name. Company. Source for goods. Prepare it as quickly as possible. It doesn't need to be perfect, but it must hold up under basic questioning. Then, get a room for me at a small inn in the East End. I'll wait for you there."

  "I can try!" Hendrick whipped out his notebook, scribbling furiously.

  "Good. But remember, the key is the story. Why am I seeking out this laundry? Because I heard they handled Lady Rossetti's Venetian lace gown—the one that developed yellowing from improper cleaning—and they solved her problem."

  "Is there a Lady Rossetti?"

  "It doesn't matter. What matters is that it sounds specific and touches on reputation, which a laundry serving nobility would care about deeply."

  Anger took out a small leather case and placed samples of various fabrics inside. "A laundry for the aristocracy fears nothing more than damaging precious textiles. A supplier who can solve problems... they'll grant him ten minutes."

  Hendrick nodded as though his head were a bobblehead, but then worry crept back onto his face. "Sir... you're going alone?"

  "You stay on the periphery." Anger checked the latches of his case. "I need you to look into another thing: the cleaning company's vehicle schedules. Find the weekly route of the carriage that goes to the Viscount's estate and returns. If our... negotiation fails, we at least need to know the laundry's general area."

  "Understood."

  Anger picked up the case. "I'm going to borrow some dyes from Watson. Hendrick."

  "Yes, sir?"

  "None of today's activities go into the official report. To anyone, you simply say the lead went cold and we're checking other avenues. Clear?"

  Hendrick swallowed and gave a solemn nod.

  As Anger pushed the door open, a modest twowheeled hansom cab—paid for from his own pocket—was waiting outside.

  "Where to, sir?" the driver asked from within the fog.

  Anger gave an address: a small inn near the East End docks.

  When the creaking door of the inn swung open, the last embers still glowed faintly in the hearth.

  Old Morgan sat in his usual corner by the fireplace, his unlit pipe clenched between his teeth.

  "Sit," Old Morgan said without preamble. "Not good, coming out in fog this thick."

  Anger took off his damp coat and sat. "I've taken on a case. A Viscountess. Some... unusual aspects. Fungal growths.I've seen similar on a deserter from the Northern fronts. Suggests... ritualistic elements."

  "And your East End case turned up this." Anger gently pushed the handkerchief with the coin across the table. "Found less than twenty yards from the body."

  Old Morgan didn't touch it. "Flip it."

  Anger carefully turned the coin over with a fingertip. The markings on the back were blurred, only vague shapes and what might have been numbers.

  "Don't know it." Old Morgan leaned back, working the pipe stem between his teeth. "Pattern's too fuzzy. Could be shoddy work from some backalley mint, circulating in the black markets as small change."

  He fixed his gaze on Anger. "But you came to me, which means you think it's unusual. Why?"

  Anger didn't answer immediately. He waited a beat. "Vinter."

  Old Morgan watched him in silence for a long moment, the pipe rotating slowly.

  "You've gotten quite good at describing those... false feelings, lad," Morgan finally said. "This coin, I suggest you ask Jim. The sordid affairs of the East End docks, he knows better than I." He jerked his chin towards the coin. "As for the Vinters..."

  He paused, his eyes shifting to the dancing flames in the grate.

  "Arthur Vinter, marrying that girl from the Bethany family... wasn't a whim. The name 'Bethany' pops up in old Northern archives now and then. Always tangled up with... unsettled things. Your mother was a Bethany too, remember."

  "The Vinter family," Old Morgan continued, "on the surface, they're in shipping and banking. But fifty years ago, when I was still pounding the beat, there were whispers. Some of their ships didn't carry tea or silk. Some routes... you won't find them on any map."

  He gave a grim, humorless smile. "Just like some confessionals in a Bishop's residence aren't for hearing the sins of common folk."

  "And the Industrial Committee?" Anger asked.

  Old Morgan snorted, blowing out an imaginary puff of smoke.

  "The Committee? All they see is profit. If the Vinters provide what they need, they'll look the other way. There's an invisible line between these three powers." He looked back at Anger. "You're feeling for that line, lad. And by the time you find it, it's often already wrapped around your neck."

  He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, and rubbed at an old injury with his palm—a gesture born of longstanding discomfort.

  "Give the coin to Jim. Hear what he has to say. Then... know when to stop. You're a good detective. Don't get yourself stuck in a hole you can't climb out of."

  "And if," Anger said slowly, "if her death wasn't an accident, nor simply a noble's murder, but part of something much larger? If I look away... how do I live with myself?"

  "Then remember this," Old Morgan said finally. "Before you decide to dig any deeper, always secure your retreat. And don't trust anyone. Not even old sods like me. Because under enough pressure, everyone bends."

  He waved a hand, dismissing the conversation, and added, "Jim usually lurks near the third rubbish bin in the back alley. Mind yourself when you go."

  The brass bell above the door jingled as it swung shut.

  ******

  Anger approached the third trash bin. Only an iron barrel leaned against the wall, no one nearby.

  He waited for about an hour. Aside from stray cats rummaging for something, there were only the distant, muffled sounds of carriage wheels and street vendors from the main road.

  Then he heard it—the tap of a cane against the ground, slowly drawing nearer.

  Limping Jim emerged from the fog, looking like a pile of old clothes that had learned to walk on its own. His left leg dragged stiffly, his body tilting sideways with each step, steadied only by the cane in his right hand jammed into the muddy ground.

  He stopped about five paces from Anger, eyeing him up and down, pausing at his boots and the fabric of his coat.

  “Flatfoot,” Jim said. “Old Morgan sent you.”

  Anger didn’t deny it. He drew a penny from his coat and flicked it with his thumb. Jim lifted his cane and neatly caught the coin in the crook under his arm. He didn’t look at the money, his eyes still fixed on Anger.

  “Worth more’n that,” Jim said. “Old Morgan’s troubles are a tenpenny business, at least.”

  Anger added another penny.

  “Ask, then.”

  Anger took out the coin wrapped in a handkerchief. He stepped closer but didn’t hand it over, just opened his palm to show it.

  “Bone Coin” Jim spat. The spit was too thick to hit the mud; it dripped onto his coat instead. “Also called a mute coin. Where’d you pick it up?”

  “Near Whitechapel.”

  “Chuck it,” Jim said. “Now. Down the gutter. Don’t watch it sink.”

  “Why?”

  Jim’s grin, missing two teeth, looked grim. “?’Cause it’s dirty. Heard of the Collectors? Debtlords send ’em to gather what’s owed. Sometimes they leave this sort o’ token as a receipt. Or a mark. The one who gets it is either next on the list, or has to… pass it along.”

  “Pass along what?”

  “Who knows?” Jim shrugged. “A message. Somethin’ else. But the tales say those who end up holdin’ the token and don’t pass it on… come to bad ends. Ugly ones.”

  He stared at Anger. “So chuck it. Ten pence, and I never saw the thing.”

  Anger didn’t move. “The laundry.”

  Jim’s expression turned cold.

  “You ask too many questions, Flatfoot. Some names aren’t said lightly down in the docks.” He paused, tapping his cane impatiently. “Another shilling. I’ll tell you somethin’ else. About what you’re diggin’ for.”

  Anger counted out two shillings and passed them over.

  “SoapMoon Laundry,” Jim said, his words quickening. “West side o’ the docks. Handles the fine wash for toffs and their ladies. Started losin’ people ’bout a fortnight back.”

  “Losing people?”

  “Three laundry girls. Young, strong ones.”

  “And the laundry now?”

  “Runnin’ smooth as you please,” Jim sneered. “Foreman’s got a new crew. Fresh faces. Quick hands, quiet tongues. The matron told folks the girls ran off with sailors. Paid the families hushmoney to bury it.”

  He kept his eyes on Anger. “The wash slips—I’ve seen copies. Don’t ask how. I’ve got my ways.”

  He’d actually wiped his ass with those very copies.

  “Who’s behind it?” Anger asked.

  This time, Jim didn’t ask for more coin. “On paper, a woman named Brent runs it. But the waybills and the money lead back to one same fellow. You dig that up yourself.”

  Jim was already turning, dragging his bad leg toward the other end of the alley. “That’s it, Flatfoot. Paid in full. And a free bit o’ advice: if you go sniffin’ round that laundry, don’t wear that Copper’s skin o’ yours. Folks there got an allergy to uniforms.”

  After obtaining the lead, Anger returned to the small inn. Old Morgan had already left. Though it was an inn, it served drinks at the bar. He ordered a glass and sat alone, nursing it.

  Hendrick didn’t arrive until the afternoon.