Anger Hastings stood outside the iron gates of the viscount's estate. Unlike others, he wore no gloves; he had removed them to feel the air here.
In it, besides the familiar coal smoke and the fishy scent of the Thames, wafted a trace of exotic, heady incense from deep within the mansion—something from the Orient.
The voice of Constable Hendrick, young and clear as it should be, sounded behind him. "The Chief Inspector said it's best to have preliminary findings before dawn."
Anger didn't turn. The index and middle fingers of his right hand were rubbing the edge of a leather-bound logbook in his coat pocket—a habitual gesture when he thought.
For seven years, this motion had accompanied him through seventeen murder scenes, thirty-four missing persons cases, and countless grey incidents the police ignored and the Church dismissed.
But tonight was different.
"Hendrick," he spoke without turning. "Go ask the night watchman at the east service entrance if the Viscountess went out last night. Remember, don't say you're a constable. Say you're a newspaper intern writing gossip about a charity gala for society ladies."
"But... the Chief Inspector said—"
"The Chief Inspector is drinking tea in his office." Anger finally turned. "And we are in the fog. Do as I say."
The young man swallowed, an internal struggle flashing across his face before he nodded. He turned and vanished into the mist,
the overly large hem of his uniform scraping against the wet cobblestones with an incongruous sound.
Only after watching him leave did Anger push open the iron gate.
The air inside the mansion was congealed.
Yet it could still hold the dying crimson light found deep within the fireplace ashes.
******
Valentine stood in the center of the foyer, a man around sixty. His hair was combed with impeccable neatness, not a single wrinkle marred his black butler's livery, and his expression was one of dutiful deference.
"Detective Hastings," Valentine gave a slight bow. "His Lordship is waiting in the study. He hopes you may conclude this matter with all due haste."
"Where is the body?"
"In Her Ladyship's bedchamber. The parish deacons have already performed the initial rites. God has rendered His judgment. Let us not allow secular inquiry to further disturb the peace of the departed."
"I am precisely that secular inquiry," Anger said, retrieving the silver police badge from inside his overcoat and fastening it to his lapel. "Lead the way."
The staircase to the second floor was carpeted in deep crimson. No dust gathered on the banister. Every oil painting on the wall hung in perfect alignment, and the candles in the sconces were all fresh.
The bedroom door was carved with an intricate, remarkably elegant pattern. The moment Valentine pushed it open, Anger was met with the source of the rosemary scent he'd caught outside the manor—here, it was a hundred times more potent.
Anger stood at the threshold, not entering immediately.
The room was large, filled with lace, silk, and fine wooden furniture. The curtains of the four-poster bed were drawn back, the bed itself empty. The body was not there.
It was by the window.
Lady Elizabeth Vinter, The pre-marriage surname was Bethany. Twenty-eight years old. That surname—Bethany—was not one you heard every day. It was the same as his mother's.
Now, Elizabeth knelt on the carpet before the window. She wore an ivory-white nightgown, her silver hair cascading loose. Her hands were clasped over her chest, her head tilted slightly upwards. Had her skin not taken on a ghastly pallor, the posture might have been one of prayer.
But it wasn't prayer. It was fixation on the window.
Anger entered the room and moved to face the corpse.
The Gothic pointed-arch window, its leaded panes dividing the glass into countless small pieces, should have shown nothing but the fog-shrouded, pitch-black night. Instead, there were three vague, luminous reflections in the mist.
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The left one was indigo. The center, a rust-red. The rightmost, bone-white.
Arranged in a gently curving arc, these three reflections in the fog cast light that passed through the glass, painting the floorboards with three overlapping, shifting pools of colored radiance. And these pools, as if by some sinister design, precisely enveloped the body.
He closed his eyes, then opened them. The reflections remained. This was no illusion. Yet neither the butler nor anyone else had mentioned the three moons hidden by the nocturnal fog.
"Is there a problem, Inspector?" Valentine's voice came from the doorway.
"Has the window always been like this?"
"His Lordship dislikes drawn curtains. As did Her Ladyship," the butler replied promptly. "They claimed moonlight purifies the soul."
Anger did not press further.
He crouched down, level with the corpse, and leaned in for a closer look. Lady Elizabeth's features were delicate, but their delicacy now was that of fine porcelain, lacking the warmth of living flesh. Her eyes were half-open, the irises an unusual shade of gray-green.
Anger leaned closer still. Yes. The same shade of gray-green as his own.
"Time of death?" he asked.
"The deacon judged it to be around midnight. Her Ladyship kept early hours. The maid last saw her retired at eleven," Valentine continued. "His Lordship awoke at three this morning to find her absent. He discovered her here, just as you see."
******
Anger’s gaze fell on the corpse’s hands—clasped together, nails neatly trimmed. But lodged beneath the nails of the right middle and ring fingers was a residue of white, frost-like powder, quite substantial.
He leaned closer and sniffed. No distinct odor, but experience told him this mineral powder under the nails wasn’t mere grime.
It resembled arsenide—arsenic. He had seen such powder before.
He continued his examination.
The Viscountess’s sleeping gown was made of fine silk, yet on the knee area there was a small stain of grease, shimmering with an iridescent sheen. He retrieved an evidence bag and tweezers, carefully cutting away that small piece of fabric.
After securing the sample, his eyes drifted where they shouldn’t have—and caught sight of something on her chest.
The collar of the gown lay slightly open. Just below the collarbone, a faint, silvery glint caught the light. Filaments.
Anger put on gloves and gently parted the collar.
The filaments were silver-white, fine as hair, emerging from the skin over her heart. They clustered together, a small tuft, with tiny transparent droplets clinging to their tips. He touched one with the tweezers—it trembled faintly.
"What is this?" he murmured.
"The steward called it a mark of divine retribution,” Valentine answered truthfully. "Her Ladyship may have touched knowledge she ought not to have."
Anger’s eyes remained fixed on the filaments. He stared, and after a moment, the scene before him began to warp.
In the air around the corpse, more filament-like patterns swirled into focus. They developed luminous spots, then—like living things—transformed into growing fungal vines, coiling around the Viscountess’s wrists, ankles, and neck on their own.
Anger steadied himself and closed his eyes once more. He hoped when he opened them again, all these illusions would vanish.No such luck. Everything he saw remained.
He took a deep breath, forcing himself to concentrate. When he focused his attention on those fungal vines, they grew clearer. What he saw were filaments all ultimately intertwining in one place—the spot over her heart.
"Detective," Valentine called.
Anger’s movements turned somewhat stiff, but he slowly turned around. "I need to inspect Her Ladyship’s personal effects. Dressing table, wardrobe, study—everywhere."
"That would likely require His Lordship’s permission. The master—"
"Then go obtain permission," Anger cut him off. "Until then, this room is sealed. No one enters. That includes you."
The steward fell silent for a few seconds, then bowed. "As you wish."
The door closed.
Anger walked to the window and looked up at the night sky. The fog still hung thick. And within it, the reflections of those three moons remained.
******
The journal in his pocket grew suddenly hot.
Anger pulled it out and opened it. The pages flipped on their own, stopping at a blank sheet.
Then, writing appeared—stroke by stroke. It wasn't his handwriting.
The words seeped up from the very fibres of the paper.
Deceased: Elizabeth Vinter.
Anomalous Phenomenon: Triple Moonlight Projection.
Physical Manifestation: Crystallized Edict-energy at cardiac region.
Preliminary Toxicology: Arsenic compounds residue under fingernails.
Clothing Evidence: Grease stain at knee.
Linked Lead: Morgue, Chamber B7.
Actions: Extract mycelium sample for analysis. Examine grease stain. Inspect contents of Chamber B7.
The writing stopped there.
Anger stared at the page. He knew the Log recorded clues—he’d known that for seven years.
He had always believed it was merely a projection of his subconscious, a peculiar form of intuition. But words writing themselves in his own journal? He couldn't dwell on it. He had no one to ask, and could ask no one.
The only thing he truly couldn't comprehend was the term "Crystallized Edict-energy." He had never heard of such a thing.
He flipped back to the previous page. It contained his own handwriting from last night, notes on a smuggling case down at the docks. The script was undoubtedly his own.
He flipped forward to the page after the newly written one. It was blank.
This page, which should not have held any writing, now did. Perhaps by tomorrow, the words would vanish again.
Anger closed the Log and shoved it back into his pocket.
He crouched beside the body once more. This time, he retrieved a small glass vial and a scalpel from his kit. Carefully, he sliced off a few strands of the silvery mycelium and placed them in the vial.
The moment they separated from the body, the filaments lost their lustre, turning into dull, greyish threads.
Next, he took a sample of the grease stain, and finally, scrapings from under the fingernails.
Having completed this, he stood up and looked once more at the body.
Lady Vinter remained in her upward-gazing posture, her grey-green eyes half-lidded, reflecting the inverted image of three moons in the fog.
Those eyes seemed to say, You can see it too, can't you?