The garret in Whitechapel was a shambles. St. Cyprian stood in the doorway, a handkerchief pressed against his nose and mouth. The stink of blood was heavy on the air, and it stirred up bad, black thoughts of the War, never far from the surface of his mind.
Then, for those of a sensitive psychical disposition, the East End was a sump of bad, black thoughts and evil emanations, massacres aside. It had been such since the day the Saxons had begun to drain the marshy ground just outside the...