Anger walked at the back. As they crossed the forecourt, his left eye began to burn fiercely. The golden filigree seemed to come alive, spreading across his vision. The world overlaid itself with a most queer filter—more unnerving than anything he'd seen before.

  Luminous veins pulsed across the surface of the stone walls. The roots of the wild grasses were entangled with a blackish mist. And in the air hung countless specks of golden light, growing denser the closer they drew to the priory's main structure.

  He blinked, trying to suppress the aberrant sight. It was useless.

  Was this an extension of his hallucinations, or a lingering aftereffect of the opium inhaled back at Red Brick Lane, near the Spindle of Oblivion?

  The priory's chapel lay in the east wing. It was darker inside than out. Broken pews were piled in a corner, the altar had collapsed, and shards of stained glass littered the floor. How many years had wrought this decay was anyone's guess, but all abandoned buildings eventually met this fate.

  Carter carried a bull'seye lantern, the sole source of light in the dilapidated interior. Its swaying aureole illuminated the way forward, and then, everyone saw the wall.

  The wall was indeed newly built, of mismatched stones, the mortar still not fully dry. Even in the gloom, its colour appeared paler than the surrounding masonry.

  Upon it was drawn a massive inverted cross in what appeared to be a reddish fluid, over two meters tall.

  The caretaker, Old Jerome, had claimed he'd seen a nun through a crack in this very cross when he shone his light through. But the fissure Carter and the others now saw was not wide enough to peer through. Had the wall somehow… sutured itself?

  There were discrepancies between the current scene and Old Jerome's account. But now was not the time for doubt. Perhaps the old man had been addled for years. Who knew how much gin he'd downed before reporting this?

  Since entering the priory, they'd heard no birdsong, nor even the wind. The sound of their own breathing seemed an intrusion. Everyone held their breath. Though a detective might hold Truth in his hand, when Truth meets the Uncanny, it often produces an effect known as: all fear stems from insufficient firepower.

  When Anger focused, he could catch an exceedingly faint ticktock.

  Suddenly, Carter at the front raised the lantern higher. "Behind this wall is the crypt entrance. There were stairs down once, but they're sealed. Harris, see if there's another way down."

  They all stood ready until Harris returned. "No other entrance, sir."

  Perkins shivered. "Inspector… are we really breaking it down?"

  Carter didn't answer. He walked to the wall, crouched, and with a gloved finger, wiped at a damp, seeping stain on the fissure. He lifted his hand, sniffed, and frowned deeply.

  "This isn't fresh blood. At least a day old."

  "But the wall is new. If the blood was there before it was built, the mortar should have covered it. Unless—"

  "Unless the blood is seeping out from within the wall." Carter stood and turned to Perkins. "Fetch the pickaxe. Start from the corner. The rest of you, watch our backs."

  Perkins gulped but did as told. The pickaxe Harris handed him was heavy; the young constable's arms trembled visibly as he raised it.

  The first blow struck the wall stone with a dull thud, sending chips flying.

  Anger did not step forward to help. He was observing. His eyes reflected the wall's glowing network of veins, but he could say nothing of it.

  Everyone had heard that Inspector Hastings was something of an expert on… peculiar cases, yet no one had ever truly heard him speak on matters touching religion. It was far too sensitive a topic for the Church.

  With every strike of the pickaxe, the pulsing in Anger's vision fluctuated.

  "Carter," Anger spoke up suddenly.

  "What?"

  "Have you dealt with similar cases before? This inverted cross… such a religious symbol."

  Carter, who was helping Perkins pry a stone loose, paused. "Why ask?"

  "Just trying to understand. If it's a series, there might be a pattern. Places like bell towers, priories… any common thread?"

  Carter silently worked the stone free. Mortar dust pattered down, revealing deeper darkness behind. "The common thread," he finally said, "is that they're all abandoned. In places no one minds, nothing's strange."

  "I've seen this mark elsewhere."

  Carter whipped his head around. The lantern light caught the flicker of dread in his eyes. "You what?"

  "In a derelict bell tower. Now it appears at a sealed wall site. Coincidence?"

  The clatter of the pickaxe hitting the flagstones cut the conversation short. Carter didn't catch what Anger said next. Perkins had taken a step back, pointing at the gap in the wall. "There's… there's something inside!"

  Carter snatched up the lantern and thrust it close to the breach. The moment the light fell inside, the colour drained from both Carter's and Perkins's faces. Whatever Anger had been talking about was utterly forgotten.

  A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.

  Anger walked over and looked into the footwide hole.

  ******

  Through the limited view of the breach:

  The crypt was deeper than expected. Stone steps descended five or six levels before being partially blocked by rubble and broken wooden beams.

  A massive, nearly threemetertall silverplated pendulum stood within, its bob frozen midswing, its surface thick with dust. Beneath the pendulum lay a shallow stone basin, its bottom pooled with a viscous, oily sludge that emitted an overpowering stench.

  And by the basin, leaning against the pendulum's base, sat four figures.

  No—not sitting. Embedded.

  Four women in tattered nun's habits were sealed into the newly built stone wall from the waist down. Their upper bodies leaned forward, hands clasped in prayer, but their postures were unnaturally rigid. Their skin had taken on a waxy pallor, eyes wide with dilated pupils, yet their mouths were fixed in grotesque, frozen smiles.

  The lantern light probed deeper, and then a fresh wave of horror struck everyone.

  Not four. Twelve.

  Four more on each side, all arranged in a triangle. Twelve.

  A blinding, detonating pain exploded in Anger's left eye. His vision flooded with frenzied skeins of energy that saturated the entire crypt. The pendulum was the nexus—countless phantasmal chains and fungal tendrils linked it to the twelve nuns. From their bodies, innumerable fine filaments extended, piercing the walls and vanishing into the crypt's depths.

  He stumbled back, colliding with a pile of rubble.

  Carter grabbed his arm. "What did you see?"

  Anger couldn't speak. His throat felt constricted by an invisible hand; a sharp, piercing hum rang in his ears, preventing any reply.

  Perkins screamed. "Their eyes! Their eyes are moving!"

  Carter released Anger, drawing a revolver from his coat pocket and aiming it at the breach. But he did not fire. His hand trembled.

  "Fall back," he barked. "Everyone, fall back."

  Anger steadied himself with effort, forcing deep breaths. The intense pain began to slowly recede.

  He raised a hand to press against his left eye, looking at Carter with his right. "This isn't a murder."

  Carter stared at him. "Then what is it?"

  "A rite." The word finally rasped from Anger's throat.

  "What kind of rite?"

  Anger shook his head. "I don't know."

  The muscles in Carter's jaw tightened. He looked from the entombed nuns to Anger, the struggle in his eyes almost palpable.

  The lantern light swayed.

  Harris and Thomson called from outside the door. "Inspector! What's the situation in there?"

  "Fetch reinforcements!" Carter shouted back. "Do not come in!"

  ******

  Perkins was still trembling, the young constable's fingers whiteknuckled around the pickaxe handle. "Their eyes... they're still moving." He was nearing his breaking point, his voice shrinking to a whisper. "I saw it. Truly, turning."

  "Shut it, Perkins." Carter wasn't looking at the breach anymore. He turned to Anger.

  "Hastings." Carter took a step forward. "Listen well." His hand shot out and gripped Anger's upper arm. The pressure wasn't brutal, but even through the greatcoat, Anger could feel Carter's hand was actually trembling.

  "This isn't your commonorgarden murder. Twelve nuns sealed in a wall? That's a bloody religious spectacle. Whitechapel already has a Ripper on the loose. The papers chase our tails daily with that."

  Carter pointed his other hand towards the breach. "Tomorrow, The Times headline will be 'Curse of the Sunken Bell Priory'. Then every drunk, every vagrant, every soul on parish relief in the East End will be out smashing windows. Do you comprehend?"

  "Report it to the Church," Carter continued, his voice low and urgent. "This is their specialized filth. Wall gets torn down, pendulum gets carted off, evidence disappears. Then the Yard issues a statement: 'mass hysteria' or 'heretical sacrifice', the case is closed. No more bodies. Whitechapel's front page stays nice and reserved for the Ripper's bounty."

  Carter released Anger's arm and took half a step back. He pulled a pipe from his inner coat pocket. He didn't light it, just clamped it between his teeth.

  Seeing the Inspector perform this familiar, grounding ritual seemed to steady Perkins a fraction. He lowered the pickaxe and slid down the wall to sit, his back against the stones.

  "And if the Church is involved in this?" Anger finally spoke.

  Carter's jaw, working the pipe stem, went still.

  Anger looked away, towards the wall. "The masonry is new. The mortar isn't fully cured. Two days, at most. That blood has been dry for over a day, meaning they were dead before the wall went up. Who has the time to build a wall in a derelict priory? That requires tools, materials, preparation. This wasn't a oneman job, Carter. This was a ritual. Longplanned."

  "And what of it?" Carter took the pipe from his mouth. "Even if it's a rite, it's the Church's own dirty laundry. They'll handle their own housekeeping. Why should we stick our oars in? Hastings, you think because the Met gave you that 'expert on peculiar cases' moniker, you can actually go toetotoe with the diocesan tribunal?"

  Anger was silent for a few seconds. He could feel the journal in his inner pocket radiating heat. Since nearing that pendulum, this strangeness had intertwined with everything his eye was showing him.

  He needed time. He needed to investigate this crypt alone.

  "Give me fortyeight hours," Anger said.

  Carter narrowed his eyes.

  "You announce publicly it was just a derelict cellar, some animal bones found, all cleared up. If, in fortyeight hours, I find not a shred of evidence pointing to a conventional homicide—not a single clue that normal investigative logic can explain—then you report it to the Church. I won't stand in your way."

  "On what grounds?" Carter sneered.

  "On the grounds that I am Londinium's most notorious 'expert on peculiar cases'. My endorsement makes it all... palatable."

  That froze Carter's expression. Anger saw a flicker of doubt in the other man's eyes.

  "Not an official involvement. A suggestion. Martha Tabram's case, you can still handle as you see fit. I won't drag the Met into it. I just need to look into a few things I want to understand here. As for how you close the case, that's your affair. Give me fortyeight hours in this priory."

  Carter worked the pipe stem between his teeth again. He looked at the breach, then at the slumped Perkins, and finally back at Anger's face.

  "Fortyeight hours," he finally conceded. "As long as the Met stays out of the broth, we might keep the lid on. But I want something useful from you now. Martha Tabram. What's your gut telling you?"

  "My gut tells me Martha will not be the first. And certainly not the last."

  Carter's gaze sharpened.

  Anger pressed his advantage. "If these twelve nuns are part of a ritual, then the Ripper's women are the ritual's ingredients. He's collecting. Martha... she looked like a botched first attempt."

  Carter considered this. Why wouldn't the killer practice on animals? The subject couldn't be an animal. And if the first attempt left wounds but achieved nothing else... failure was a strong possibility.

  Perkins let out a short, sharp gasp.

  Carter stared at Anger for a long time.

  "You're a dangerous lunatic, Hastings," Carter said at last.

  "Perhaps," Anger acknowledged. "But lunatics sometimes see things normal men can't."

  Carter gave a curt, final nod. "Perkins!" He turned to the young constable. "On your feet. Go tell Harris and Thomson to call off the reinforcements. Say it was just a den of stray dogs, already cleared. Then the two of you stand guard at the priory gates until noon tomorrow. Anyone asks, that's the story."

  Perkins struggled to his feet. His face was still parchmentwhite, but he could follow orders. He staggered out the door.

  Now, only Carter and Anger remained before the crypt.

  "Fortyeight hours," Carter repeated. "Starting now. If you renege, or if I find you're stirring up something that could blow the whole East End skyhigh..."

  "You'll deliver me to the tribunal yourself," Anger finished for him.

  Carter gave a humorless twist of his lips. "I will."

  He cast one last look at the breach, then turned and left.