Lorenzo Bellatus’s words had been needling at Anger’s mind, a persistent, unsettling thorn. So he called for Hendrick again and issued his instructions.
Hendrick shouldered his way through the door, arms laden with a stack of files. “Inspector, I did as you asked and pulled the railway construction records from the Central Archives.”
He deposited the hefty pile on the desk. “These are copies of engineering contracts — about as much as we can officially get our hands on right now. The Northern Railway Company is the contractor for the freight line from the East End to the docks. They also have the bid for a large section connecting to the New World.” Hendrick flipped open a contract page. “Principal contractor: Lord Arthur Vinter. The majority shareholder is the Vinter Family Trust. The rest is split between a few minor investors.”
Anger scanned the details, his attention snagging on a name: Edwin Lyle.
Him? Coincidence? Or is this exactly the trap Lorenzo hoped I’d find?
“What about reports on the rumours?”
Hendrick extracted another bound volume, stamped CONFIDENTIAL – Industrial Accident Log on the cover.
Anger flipped through it rapidly.
Report No. 3
Deceased: Thomas Burns, 32, tracklayer.
Time of Death: Approximately 0200 hours.
Cause: Fell from the cinder embankment section into a deep pit. Skull fracture. Final ruling: Suicide due to mental distress.
Note: Coworkers testified the deceased repeatedly muttered ‘Mum’s coming’ before death, exhibited abnormal behaviour, and walked actively towards the cliff edge.
Report No. 7
Deceased: Two labourers.
Time of Death: Night.
Cause: Asphyxiation. Bodies discovered beneath a stack of sleepers, poses contorted. Silvertinged mucus residue found at corners of mouths.
Note: No signs of struggle at scene. Both were debtbonded labourers. Foreman claimed death was due to operational error (buried by materials). Mucus samples taken for analysis.
Mucus. Anger recalled the viscous substance from the silver fungal outbreak on the old soldier’s corpse in the morgue. These bizarre cases always had some anomalous material.
He turned to the appendices of the report. The pages containing the lab results had been removed.
“Anything else? Neighbourhood complaints, anomaly reports?”
Hendrick nodded. “The local division’s patrol sergeant filed a report. Says in the last three months, residents along the tracks have lodged complaints at least a dozen times. Mainly two things: one, hearing children singing at night — weird melodies; two, metal scraping sounds, not normal machinery noise.”
“Police response?”
“All dismissed. The division got orders from above: all complaints regarding nocturnal railway work are to be answered as ‘normal construction noise, contractor instructed to control volume.’ But the bobbies say privately they’ve been to the site several times. Found no machines operating that could make noises like that.”
Anger leaned back in his chair. Unbeknownst to him, the Chief had already received a confidential missive — far above Anger’s clearance.
Its contents, roughly:
1. Anomalous phenomena along the railway are to be handled by Parishdispatched clergy.
2. Police are not to conduct independent investigations into related incidents.
3. The Vinter Family Trust donates 500 gold sovereigns monthly to the Cathedral, for specified uses.
Schneider had signed off on it long ago.
All Hendrick — and by extension, Anger — could uncover was a sliver concerning an addendum from the Commission.
Special Permit
Holder: Northern Railway Company
This narrative has been purloined without the author's approval. Report any appearances on Amazon.
Permit: Authorised to employ ‘unconventional labour management measures’ provided project deadlines are met.
Validity: Until railway completion.
Issuing Authority: Industrial Commission, Labour Allocation Bureau.
“Hendrick, I need two things. First, a detailed work schedule for the railway site, especially the night shifts. Second, a site access map — routes into the interior that don’t go through the main gate.”
“The schedule I can manage. The access map might be trickier.”
“Do your best. Use my authority to pull the municipal construction filings. The initial survey should have produced original terrain maps.”
“Understood.”
A day later, Hendrick had news. He provided coordinates for an optimal observation point: a derelict watchtower near the tracks, and a route that could grant interior access.
Before dusk, Anger prepared an evidence kit: glass vials, tweezers, evidence bags. After a moment’s thought, he added the camera borrowed from Watson — a modified model without a flash. The lack of flash posed an obvious drawback: in insufficient light, clicking the shutter would be an exercise in futility.
Just as he finished his final check, ready to set out, he noticed something on the corner of his desk that hadn’t been there five minutes before.
A single, rusted railway spike.
He was certain it hadn’t been there. He even asked Hendrick, who was adamant: he had given Inspector Hastings nothing of the sort.
It was peculiar. On such matters, Hendrick had no reason to lie.
No one else should have been in the office at this hour. Watson and Miller were unlikely culprits.
The spike was severely corroded. On its head, a minuscule wolf’s head emblem was just discernible — strikingly similar to the patterns on the soapworks cauldrons, but here unmistakably clear.
Anger picked it up directly, turning it over. The scrapes on its shaft were fresh, as if it had been recently wrenched from a sleeper.
******
The place Anger quietly climbed was called Cinder Hill. It wasn't truly a hill, but rather a raised stretch of upland in the East End of Londinium, named for the heaps of coal cinders dumped there in earlier times. The abandoned watchtower Hendrick mentioned stood at its summit—a dispatch tower from the old railway era.
From his prone position on the tower roof, Anger peered forward through his telescope.
Some four hundred yards below Cinder Hill, the railway furtively continued its work. Dozens of gas lamps hung from makeshift wooden poles, their light swarming with mosquitoes and other flying insects. Moonlight struggled to pierce the haze, creating the city's signature smokecolumns—particles of soot suspended in the damp air, illuminated by the lunar glow.
Anger adjusted the telescope's focus.
The tracks snaked ahead. The sleepers lay like rows of dark teeth, but from this distance, he could see a sickly, silvertinged sheen seeping from between them. It was madness. The viscous fluid oozed up, collecting into tiny rivulets that trickled slowly along the gradient of the roadbed. The sight sent a genuine jolt of horror through him.
And then the sound began.
At first, Anger, observing from afar, felt a discomfort in his ears, mistaking it for tinnitus. But soon, he discerned the melody. A children's choir. Yet each syllable was unnaturally drawnout, the pace at least half as slow again as any normal lullaby.
The singing had no clear point of origin. The sensation was that the entire stretch of railway was producing the sound, creating a grotesque, stereophonic resonance within the night fog.
Mother's coming home...
The silver mother...
Anger lowered the telescope, squeezed his eyes shut, shook his head, and looked again. The singing persisted, worming its way into his skull.
Pushing the distraction aside, he continued his observation.
At the edge of the worksite stood a black tent, its canvas bearing the embroidered silvercross emblem of the Parish. Two blackrobed priests sat at its entrance before a small table, recording notes.
Outside the tent were stacked five or six small lead coffins, their surfaces etched with dense, intricate sigils.
Looking further into the worksite, foremen in heavy workclothes bellowed—their shouts just audible at this distance.
"Group B, advance! No stopping!"
"Group C, clean the seepage! Barrel it!"
Through the telescope, the movements of these labourers appeared unnaturally stiff. Their faces were unclear, but occasionally, he caught the distinct蠕动 (wriggling/movement) of their lips. The opening and closing matched the rhythm of the children's chorus in his ears.
As if this weren't unsettling enough, the work schedule had marked a special zone. It was concealed under a massive, heavy tarpaulin. From its edges, a continuous plume of white steam billowed forth, condensing into visible fogbanks in the night air. Four blackclad figures stood guard at its entrance, holding what looked like tools or weapons.
Parked beside the tarpaulin shelter were three flatbed wagons, their cargo also shrouded in oilcloth.
Anger picked up the camera. He waited for moments where the ambient light seemed strongest and pressed the shutter. He took over a dozen shots, covering the entire stretch of track and the worksite.
Just as he moved to change position for closeups, footsteps sounded on the stairs.
His heart thumped hard against his ribs. Had he been discovered?
He swiftly stowed the camera and shrank back into the shadows.
What met his eyes next was utterly staggering. Though it was night, he could recognise the figure that emerged alone up the spiral staircase. It was the same automaton he had seen at Mute Tower, and later at the BoneBird gambling den.
It still wore that Gothic black dress. And it was barefoot.
The automaton walked directly to the parapet at the tower's edge, facing the worksite below. It simply stood there. Then, slowly, it spread its arms in an embracing gesture, tilting its head back slightly. The night wind stirred its silvery hair.
It held the pose for a moment, then lowered its arms. When it raised a hand again, its index finger pointed unerringly, straight at the direction of the tarpaulin shelter.
Having done this, the automaton turned and descended the stairs.
Throughout the entire process, it never once glanced toward Anger's hiding place.
Anger waited until the automaton had completely vanished before emerging from the shadows. Its appearance solved the mystery of the railway spike that had materialised among his tools. The automaton was following him. But why it acted this way sent his mind racing with possibilities for a long while.
Its purpose remained inscrutable for now. He had no choice but to raise the telescope again, focusing intently on the tarpaulin shelter it had indicated.
Now he saw it: the tarpaulin's edges billowed slightly from the heat within, and a hellish red glow leaked from inside the shelter. The specific details remained unknown. He would have to get inside to see.
After wrestling with his thoughts, Anger decided. He would go. He would sneak a look inside that shrouded place. After all, Hendrick had provided a route into the interior.