Its surface was cluttered with ornate enamel jewelry boxes—neat, expensive, yet utterly lifeless.
He pulled open the first drawer. Inside were neatly stacked silk gloves and lace handkerchiefs.
The second drawer held assorted satin ribbons and spare buttons.
The third drawer was stuck.
Anger applied a bit more force before it slid open a crack.No jewelry inside—only a few fashion magazines shoved haphazardly and a notebook with a blank cover.
The edges of the notebook were worn from frequent handling.Frowning, he pulled it out with a gloved hand.
It was light.He opened to the first page.
Smooth, feminine handwriting. The entry began with a date from over a year ago.
October 7th, Overcast
Mother was right. Moonlight truly does whisper. Tonight, it spoke of chains.Arthur stayed in the study until three in the morning. I heard him on a low call, mentioning the mines and a new agreement.
When he returned, he carried that smell again. Nauseating. My headache has returned. Professor Croft’s last prescription was useless. The way he looks at me frightens me—it isn’t the gaze of a doctor toward a patient.
Anger flipped ahead quickly.
December 3rd, Fog
I saw them again. Not just the moonlight, but colors on people.When Head Maid Martha brought tea today,
I nearly knocked the cup over. She was shrouded in a dull, perpetually sinking haze. That color means heaviness and despair.Am I going mad? I dare not tell anyone.
Arthur says the women of the Bethany line are all somewhat nervous—need careful rest.The doctors he summons grow more numerous, their medicines stranger.
March 15th, Rain
Overheard Arthur speaking with that lawyer Jennings, and another man whose face I couldn’t make out.
They kept saying “the window,” “the window.” What window?
They mentioned the third full moon of March. That’s next month.
The diary grew more disordered—the handwriting shifting between neat and frantic, the intervals between entries increasingly irregular.
Yet Anger could make out recurring phrases: seeing colors, hearing whispers, headaches.
One page contained only a single word, repeated over and over: Hurt hurt hurt hurt…
He flipped further, stopping at a page still relatively legible. The dates grew vague.
(They showed me that crest. Arthur called it a blessing, an honor.)
All I saw were chains. Countless chains stretching from that crest, wrapping around every part of me. I can’t breathe.Professor Croft says this is my gift revealing itself.
No. No no no no no. I don’t want it.
Is someone helping me? That shadow always lingering nearby… Last time, they left a note warning me of the crimson moon. Who are they?
The final entry was dated three days ago.
That crest comes from the North—a family nearly forgotten.And the “private wash” in the East District. That’s where they handle things.
The moonlight whispers again tonight, clearer than ever. It says “The time is at hand”
May God forgive me. Or pity me.
The diary ended there.
The lady was truly driven to madness, Anger thought. Her later entries show she could no longer coherently describe what she was experiencing.
He slipped the notebook directly into his pocket. Aside from the diary, the rest were merely common items. After searching a while longer, Valentine returned to report.
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“The master has agreed to your request,” the butler said, “and asks that you treat her ladyship’s remains with respect.”
******
After collecting all the evidence, Anger returned to the police station with Hendrick. The body was arranged to be transported back to the station by others.
Inside the carriage, Hendrick sat across from him, his notebook spread open on his knees, his pen moving swiftly across the page. The gatekeeper said Lady Vinter left in a carriage at eight last night and returned around ten—nothing unusual. The maid said she went straight to her bedroom upon returning, claiming she wanted to read for a while.
"Detective?"
Anger snapped back to attention. "Hmm?"
"You don’t look well."
"Normal side effect of staying up all night." Anger gazed out the carriage window. "Is the Commissioner at the station?"
"He is. And—" Hendrick lowered his voice. "His Grace the Bishop is there too."
Anger was holding his logbook, his fingers unconsciously tracing its edges.
"Bishop Morris?"
"… and that commissioner from the Industrial Committee, Mr. Brough. They arrived an hour ago. They’re all in the Commissioner’s office now."
Anger hadn’t expected things to move this fast.
Lady Vinter was found dead at three in the morning. It was just past five now, and high-ranking officials from both the Parish and the Industrial Committee were already gathered at the police station.
This was clearly abnormal. Unless they already knew something was going to happen.
The carriage came to a stop in front of the police precinct. As Anger stepped out, he noticed two additional black-robed deacons wearing the parish’s silver holy emblems on their chests stationed by the entrance.
The way they looked at him was pure distaste. What kind of plague-bearer warrants an expression like that?
Even before knocking, Anger could hear voices from inside the office. He waited a few seconds before pushing the door open.
******
The voices in Chief Schneider's office fell silent instantly.
Compared to the carriage, the heating in the office was truly first-class—absolutely sufficient. The fireplace was also burning vigorously.
Chief Schneider sat behind his wide desk, his portly body once again sunk into the leather chair.
Anger glanced around. On the left sofa sat Bishop Morris. His face was always ruddy, and he leaned on an ornate staff. The gold-thread embroidery on his luxurious bishop's robes always shimmered.
As for the single armchair on the right, that should be Commissioner Brough. They hadn't met before; he was reportedly a special envoy recently dispatched to Londinium by the Industrial Committee. At this moment, Brough's gray hair was impeccably combed, and behind gold-rimmed glasses, he was sizing up Anger.
"Chief Hastings," the Chief began with a piled-on smile, "you've worked hard. Out on duty so early. How did it go?"
Anger walked to the center of the office. He had no seat and had to stand. "Preliminary examination complete. The deceased, Elizabeth Vinter, twenty-eight years old. Cause of death pending autopsy confirmation, but abnormal growths and suspected toxic residue were found on the body. A triple-moonlight projection was discovered at the scene—cause unknown, requires further investigation."
He deliberately stated "triple moonlight" very flatly. Everyone knew how Anger had made his name: ostensibly a detective, but he actually handled abnormal investigations—cases many officers were unwilling to touch.
The office fell quiet for a few seconds. The atmosphere turned rather awkward.
The Bishop was the first to move, but it was to chuckle.
"Triple moonlight..." Bishop Morris slowly shook his head, his fingers rubbing the gem on his staff. "Young man, you've been staying up too late. Fog City nights have only fog. Occasionally, the moon breaks through the clouds, but there have never been three. That's common knowledge."
"I saw it," Anger said.
"Eyes can often deceive, especially in moments of stress," the Bishop leaned forward. "Elizabeth Vinter was a devout believer. The Viscount mentioned she seemed to have recently dabbled in dangerous areas—the occult, heterodox rituals, knowledge attempting to pry into divine realms. The deacon sensed residual blasphemous aura at the scene. Her death is likely divine judgment for her transgression."
"Divine judgment?" Anger said. "Judgment usually doesn't employ arsenic."
Commissioner Brough spoke up then. "Arsenic? There are many sources for arsenic, Detective. Cosmetics, medicine... all noble ladies, to maintain pale complexions, favor beauty secrets containing it. They are symbols of beauty. To this day, no professor has declared arsenic poisonous."
The Chief's hand-rubbing speed increased. "Yes, Anger. The Viscount is a respectable man, an important partner of the Committee. This matter is best handled discreetly. I was just discussing with these two gentlemen... How about we follow procedure, issue a report of natural death, let the deceased rest, and free the living? What do you say?"
Anger watched the three of them quietly. Firewood crackled in the fireplace.
"There were residues under the deceased's fingernails," he said, word by word. "Unidentified grease stains on her knees. Silvery-white fungal filament-like growths on her chest—I've never seen similar symptoms in any medical literature. And the triple moonlight—I saw it clearly. None of these fit the characteristics of natural death."
"Fungal filaments?" Brough raised an eyebrow. "Could be a rare skin condition. As for grease stains... a lady's nightgown coming into contact with skincare products is perfectly normal."
"That requires lab tests to determine."
"Tests take time," the Bishop took over. "And time breeds rumors. Lady Vinter's death has already attracted unnecessary attention. Out of mercy, the Church is willing to hold a quiet funeral for her soul and declare it a manifestation of divine will. This is the best outcome for everyone."
Just a few sentences, and their purpose is already this strong? If there were a coffin here right now, I think this Bishop would personally throw Lady Vinter into it without hesitation.
He took a deep breath. "I require autopsy authorization."
The Chief's smile vanished. "Anger—"
"It's procedure, set by higher authorities," Anger interrupted. "Suspicious death cases must undergo forensic autopsy, unless a direct order from a higher level dismisses the case."
He looked directly at Chief Schneider.
A flicker of anger passed over Chief Schneider's plump face, followed by quiet. Then, hesitation set in. He glanced at the Bishop, then at Brough, and sighed. "Procedure... fine. But you have forty-eight hours. Forty-eight hours later, regardless of the result, the case must be closed. The Parish will take over subsequent matters."
"Sufficient." Anger turned and headed for the door.
"Detective." Brough's voice came from behind.
Anger stopped but didn't turn around.
The Commissioner said, "Remember, you serve the order of the Core Empire of Alikaxi, not disrupt it."
Anger pushed the door open and walked out. Hendrick, waiting outside, looked very nervous—he had heard everything inside.