Night's chill breeze carried a damp, murky hint in its wake. Charles stood beside his horse, tied to a wooden post outside Humphrey's home, quietly slipping the pistol he had seized from the old man into the saddlebags strapped to the saddle.
His final words to the old man hadn't stemmed from the coldness he'd displayed. In truth, it had been intentional—to make Humphrey reconsider, to realize that killing himself now would drag others into trouble, especially Charles, who had been the last person seen entering and speaking with him.
Charles understood too well why Humphrey had been driven to desperation. Having dredged up every horrifying truth from his past must have roused the guilt that had lain dormant for so long. After entrusting those dark secrets to Charles, it was no surprise he wanted to end his life in penance.
He cast a glance back at the dilapidated door he had just stepped through. Flickering lamplight still leaked through gaps in the wood. Charles hoped the old man would find a way to calm himself, to think more carefully and choose life, rather than surrender to despair.
Exhaling a deep breath, Charles mounted his horse. His next step was to find a quiet place to pore over the documents Theodore had collected for him. The wind picked up, rustling the leaves in a hushed, conspiratorial whisper, as though urging him onward. The black horse under him shuffled restlessly, before they set off into the darkness of the night.
Not long after Charles's hoofbeats faded away, Humphrey still sat slumped in his worn wooden chair, bent forward beneath the weight of sin and sorrow. His gaze was fixed on the lantern flame that flickered erratically, casting a dim glow across the room.
Suddenly, the darkness within the house seemed to intensify unnaturally, like a veil being drawn across the light. The once-bright lantern flame waned, shrinking to a single trembling spark, incapable of holding back the encroaching blackness.
Footsteps sounded in the dark… one step… two. Each reverberated off the old floorboards, echoing through the room. The noise made the old man's heart pound. Fear iced its way up his spine, and cold sweat oozed from his temples.
Out of the blackness materialized a tall figure in a dark hooded cloak, face shrouded. Another figure, dressed identically, stood quietly by his side—an eerie, living shadow.
Humphrey's eyes went wide with shock, catching a glimpse of the face in the faint glow of the dying flame. His lips quivered. "It's… you?"
"You told him everything, didn't you?" The figure's deep voice emerged from beneath the cowl, cold as a winter wind.
Humphrey nodded slowly. Terror warred with exhaustion and shame in his gaze. "Yes," he whispered. Then, lifting his eyes toward the cloaked figure, he asked, "You… you killed Roland, didn't you?"
No answer came. Silence pressed in, dark and suffocating, swallowing the room until not even a shadow remained.
Charles sat in a shadowy corner of the Golden Pheasant—a long-established eatery with an air of age to it. The muffled murmur of patrons hung in the air, along with the lingering smell of stale ale. On the battered wooden table before him were his evening meal: a hearty lamb stew with root vegetables steeped in rosemary and thyme, a beef pie with a flaky crust sliced into bite-sized squares, and a simple cup of water. Charles never cared much for warm beer.
A dim oil lamp hung over the table, casting a subdued light onto the document in his left hand. His right hand dipped a spoon into the stew, pausing now and then, while his eyes scanned line after line detailing the life of Henry Blackwell.
Henry Blackwell had been born to a poor tailor's family, the only child of Patrick and Margaret Blackwell. Margaret died of influenza when Henry was just three, leaving Patrick to raise him alone by taking on whatever sewing work he could find. Patrick tried to teach his son basic tailoring skills from a young age, and while they had little money, they managed contently—until Henry turned fourteen. Then tragedy struck again: Patrick fell from a roof while repairing it and died soon after. He left behind only debt. Their house and belongings were seized, so Henry had no choice but to become a servant in Lady Joanna Montgomery's manor.
In time, he made the acquaintance of Duncan Pennington, the son of the influential Patrick Pennington. Despite their difference in rank, the two became friends. Duncan eventually suggested Henry work as a gardener at his father's estate, a job that paid better.
At the Pennington estate, Henry impressed Patrick Pennington with his deft mending of a torn cloak on an important occasion. Moved by his skill, Patrick promoted Henry to be his personal tailor. During this period, Henry met Mercy Harrison, a maid in the service of Lady Bridget—Christopher Darcy's wife. Mercy was well-educated, having once been a merchant's daughter before her family went bankrupt. Over three years of secret courting, she and Henry eventually gained permission to marry. She taught him to read and write properly, and refined his manners for polite society.
A year into marriage, Henry resigned from tailoring for Patrick Pennington, receiving a generous sum as a parting bonus. He used it to open a small tailor shop in town. Thanks to his reputation among the nobility from his days at the Pennington estate, the shop drew wealthy clients and prospered. From a small establishment, it grew into a luxurious boutique in the heart of the city, frequented by the elite.
In a mere four years, Henry and Mercy enjoyed a comfortable life. By age thirty-two, Henry had founded Saint Margaret's—a charitable medical facility, operating on donations and staffed with paid medical professionals.
Charles set his spoon down and politely dabbed his mouth with a napkin, his eyes fixed on the text before him. He read it several times, doubt creeping through his mind: 'Strange... how did Henry find the money to build an entire hospital? Even with a successful tailor shop, that's a huge sum.'
He mulled it over. 'Henry must have had someone backing him. Could that person be the real project owner—the one wearing the big silver ring? Who else would risk so much to bankroll a mere tailor, letting him launch a charity hospital? Could it be the Penningtons themselves?'
The lantern flickered overhead, illuminating the furrow in Charles's brow. Storing these thoughts for later, he flipped to the next page, scanning Henry's expanding ventures: a textile mill employing cheap labor, a rice mill purchasing crops from local farmers, a riverine transport business, and a lumber yard exporting to neighboring realms.
Yet the most intriguing detail was mention of a sulfur mine up north. He took up a pencil and circled that paragraph.
'Sulfur mine... interesting,' he thought, reading on:
Near the mine stood a chapel, built with Henry's own funds. The stated reason was to provide religious services for workers who died there—which, evidently, happened all too frequently. Some were accidental deaths, others caused by the toxic fumes.
'And most importantly,' Charles noted to himself, 'the laborers were mostly convicts being used as cheap labor. No family, no one to ask questions if they disappeared... that's a perfect site for covert experiments—far from the public eye, with frequent "accidents."'
His appetite vanished. A swirl of calculations took over his thoughts. A remote location, where deaths were common, where people no one would miss could vanish easily... It was the ideal hiding place for unspeakable experiments. Humphrey had confirmed that whenever a carriage came to pick up supplies, it headed north and never returned the same day.
Light from the lantern revealed the faint trace of a determined smile tugging at Charles's lips. At last, he had found a promising lead.
He gazed beyond the inn's window, envisioning that sulfur mine. He had passed it once before on a job outside the city, recalling the sting of acrid fumes on the wind, and the high stone walls barricading the perimeter.
He weighed the route in his mind: traveling north out of the city, crossing open fields and dense forest, then finally reaching the mountain range where the mine was located. A half-day journey, at least.
'If I leave tonight,' he calculated, 'I'd arrive around midday or early afternoon tomorrow.'
'But I'll need to prepare properly. That isn't a place one can just wander into unplanned.'
His eyes glinted in the lantern's glow. He folded the papers and stashed them in his coat pocket, then gulped down the last of his water. Rising from his seat, he reminded himself that time was precious, and he couldn't waste a single moment.
Dropping a few coins onto the table for his meal, Charles left the inn. The wind gusted down the now-deserted street, with only the occasional lantern flickering at intervals.
'I need to get back to the Department of Supernatural Suppression and Defense,' he told himself, quickening his pace. 'Going into that mine on my own would be foolish. I'll need the Chief's approval and reinforcements.'
Footsteps rang out in the hush of night, his mind consumed by visions of the sulfur mine: towering walls, the stench of toxic vapors, and some horrifying secret hidden within. Charles's pace quickened once more, heading toward the royal district where his department was located. He had to brief them on his discoveries and secure reinforcements to storm the mine without delay.
'Time is everything,' he told himself. 'I have to hurry.'