Anger Hastings tightened his collar. The FogCity nights were still quite chilly. From a distance, the gates of the Viscount's residence cast a fanglike shadow under the gas street lamp.

  A few hours earlier, a damp and disheveled Anger had stood before Chief Schneider. The Chief was mopping sweat from his temples with a handkerchief, offering a pained smile. "Procedure requires it, Detective Hastings. Procedure requires it."

  Schneider in his youth had been a capable man. Now, in his position, he relied on Anger's casesolving prowess to bolster the reputation of the Central Constabulary. He wouldn't willingly make an enemy of anyone within the force.

  "The Viscount is a gentleman. Cannot be offended. The report copy must reach his hands. It involves his wife's death, after all."

  Anger knew the subtext: if the Viscount is displeased, the blame is yours. If the report leaks, the blame is also yours.

  He raised his hand and knocked on the door knocker.

  A servant opened a crack.

  "FirstClass Detective Anger Hastings. I need to see the Viscount," Anger announced.

  "One moment," the servant replied, then closed the door and disappeared.

  "Detective." The voice belonged to Valentine when the door opened again. "Rather late, isn't it?"

  "Orders from the Station," Anger said, raising the dossier. The seal was stamped over the flap. "The final report copy, for His Lordship."

  Valentine took a step back, opening the door fully.

  "Follow me, please." He led Anger to the Viscount's study.

  Lord Arthur Vinter stood before the fireplace, his back to the door. He wore a deep purple dressing gown. The logs in the fireplace burned vigorously.

  "Detective," the Viscount said without turning, his tone casual. "Do come in. Valentine, you may withdraw."

  The butler gave a slight bow. As he closed the door behind him, the latch clicked with deliberate softness.

  Anger approached the desk. "This is the final report copy of the case, Lord Viscount. Procedure requires your acknowledgment of receipt."

  Arthur finally turned. He was fortyfive. A courteous smile graced his lips.

  "I am already aware." The Viscount walked behind the desk but did not touch the dossier. Instead, he retrieved a cigarette case from his dressing gown pocket, took out a cigarette, and tapped it thrice, lightly, on the desk surface. "Bishop Morris sent word this morning. Your Constabulary is quite efficient."

  "I merely follow regulations, sir."

  The Viscount lit the cigarette, took a deep draw, and let the smoke seep slowly from his nostrils. "And those... silver filaments. Do your procedures offer a reasonable explanation for those, Detective?"

  "Procedure only requires your signature confirming receipt of the report. The Lady's case will be closed as suicide." Anger produced the receipt slip and, from his own overcoat pocket, drew out a pen, unscrewing the cap before offering it.

  The Viscount stared at the Constabulary letterhead on the slip for several seconds. Then he let out a bitter laugh.

  "You know, Detective Hastings... Elizabeth. My wife. She often said one thing when she was alive." He stubbed out the cigarette, barely smoked. "A gentleman's prison has no bars. We install them ourselves."

  He held the pen poised above the slip.

  "So, Detective. Tell me. Do you actually believe this report?"

  "My belief is irrelevant, Lord Viscount," Anger replied, sticking to his script. "Your signature is what matters."

  The Viscount held his gaze but finally signed the slip.

  "There." The Viscount tossed the pen back onto the desk, his desire for further discussion evidently spent. "You may go."

  ******

  Anger collected the signed slip and tucked it back into the dossier.

  However, he looked up. "If you wished... I could continue looking into it. Unofficially."

  Stolen from its rightful author, this tale is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

  The Viscount, caught off guard, did not react immediately.

  The Viscount's surprised reaction was within Anger's expectations. Proposing an unofficial investigation was not an impulsive move.

  In his seven years as a detective, he had long since learned to walk the red lines of procedure.

  He remembered the dockworker's wife who insisted her husband came home every night whispering of seaweed and rust. The man eventually walked himself into a perpetually flooding sewer. Bones never found. The file read: accidental drowning, mental instability.

  He had handled the mass hysteria in the East End apartments. Seven households dreamt the same night of being stung by golden bees, waking with matching skin lesions. After the Parish's "purification," it was filed away: collective hallucination due to gas leak, coupled with skin allergies.

  Then there was the case of the missing merchant's son. The boy's bedroom wallpaper was covered in his own blood, painted with indecipherable glyphs. The child was eventually found in his own cellar, physically unharmed but with no memory of three days, only muttering, "They were dividing the cake."

  It was closed as a prank and temporary psychosis. Yet Anger had seen traces no child could have left.

  So many cases carried outlines beyond the rational.

  But this… the death of Lady Elizabeth Vinter, née Bethany… was different. This 'Bethany' seemed to hold secrets that couldn't be simply filed away with those grey incidents.

  "What?"

  "I said I could continue investigating the cause of your wife's death," Anger's voice dropped a register. "Unofficially. Not as a Constabulary detective. I see things... many don't."

  "You see—"

  "I saw things not written in that report," Anger said. "The triplemoon reflection. The silver filaments. Traces of arsenic, though none in her stomach. Much wasn't fully recorded in the documents."

  He took a small step forward.

  "How could you—"

  "I'm a detective," Anger said. "Investigating is my job. My superiors have ordered the case closed. I've complied. But if you wish, I can continue. In another capacity."

  The firelight danced on the Viscount's face.

  "Why?" the Viscount finally spoke. "What benefit is it to you? Schneider won't appreciate this, Detective."

  "Perhaps I don't appreciate unsolved puzzles. Especially ones that stray... beyond ordinary crime."

  The Viscount closed his eyes. A full moment passed before he opened them. "Elizabeth... she loved the arts,"

  he began, almost to himself. "Galleries. Salons. Charity auctions. She said it was one of the few places she felt free."

  He reached out, opening a desk drawer, and withdrew a small leatherbound booklet. He did not hand it over, merely placed it on the desk.

  "She had been frequenting a new gallery recently. Not wellknown. Rather private. Normally, I wouldn't pay it mind."

  His fingers traced the cover. "She said the paintings there were... different. That they showed her things she wished to see."

  Anger waited.

  "I went once," the Viscount continued. "Felt... odd. Elizabeth bought a portrait. Said it reminded her of herself as a child."

  "Where is that portrait now?"

  "I don't know," the Viscount shook his head. "Elizabeth brought it back and locked it in her small studio. Only she had the key. After her passing, the studio was emptied. Many things... vanished."

  Recalling Valentine's words: Valentine suggested it might have been thieves, but in this house, no thief could take a painting without leaving a trace. Perhaps she had taken it somewhere else.

  Seeing Anger had no further questions on that point, he pressed a bell beneath the desk.

  "My Lord?" Valentine entered.

  "Valentine, retrieve that gallery's prospectus from Her Ladyship's former sitting room. For the Detective."

  The butler left to fetch the item.

  ******

  "One more question, Lord Viscount," Anger began. "Regarding the Lady's funeral. I noted that some names on the guest registry were smudged. Do you know why?"

  "The Parish's arrangement," he took another drag. "Some guests of... particular standing prefer not to be recorded. Your Constabulary doesn't concern itself with that, does it?"

  "No. Merely asking. Among the attendees, was there anyone whose behavior was... unusual? Showing excessive interest in the Lady's remains, perhaps? Or asking strange questions?"

  The Viscount fell silent.

  "There was... one individual. Claimed to be a member of some... society. Came to pay respects. He did not sign. Merely stood before the casket for a while."

  "Did he say anything?"

  The Viscount tried to recall. "She saw colours she ought not to have seen. The ScarredSchool does not forget her attempt. Nor forgive her failure. Her silence was bought... too late."

  Arthur wore an expression not of confusion, but of grim relief. Yet the meaning he attached to the words seemed entirely different. "I couldn't fathom what the fellow meant. But as the departed has passed, I saw no purpose in pursuing it. If you can continue... I entreat you to find the answer."

  Just then, Valentine returned.

  He held the booklet and offered it to Anger.

  "Thank you."

  The Viscount stood, adopting a posture of dismissal. Valentine gave a slight bow and retreated to the doorway but did not leave.

  "Detective, that is all I can say. Should you require further official assistance, please apply through the proper channels. As for the... unofficial... I did not hear of it, and I have no knowledge of it."

  "Understood." Anger tucked the booklet into his dossier. "One final, small question, Lord Viscount. Have you ever heard of a particular type of... cinchona bark? Possibly circulating in the black market?"

  The Viscount stiffened almost imperceptibly.

  "Matters of the black market..." He walked to the fireplace, turning his back to Anger. "...you may inquire privately. My enterprises do not permit association with such trade."

  He turned, meeting Anger's eyes directly.

  "Now, please excuse me. I am tired. Valentine will see you out."

  Valentine led Anger away. Midway down the hall, the butler spoke first. "Detective Hastings. Regarding that cinchona bark you mentioned... I have heard a minor piece of hearsay."

  "Please, do tell." Anger was surprised the butler knew, and more so that he was willing to offer it.

  "I've heard of a peddler called Old Meb. Often has... unclean things. Cinchona, perhaps."

  Anger saw the butler had no intention of saying more but did not press further.

  "Thank you for the information. I shall look into it."

  Outside the Viscount's residence, Anger pulled out his pocket notebook and jotted down the key points.

  Gallery. Salon. The nonsignatory. 'Saw colours.' 'ScarredSchool.' Key phrase: 'Bought too late.' Shouldn't it be 'came too late'? Yet it didn't sound like a mistake.

  As for Old Meb, mentioned by Valentine... possible connection to werewolf incidents? Worth minor attention.